Master of Her Domain
by Albrecht Starkarm
Summary: One pill makes you larger, and another makes an adult Ayumi Queen of The Castle, Lady of The Manor, Master of Her Domain. Supernatural visitations, sexual goddesses, and carnal mayhem without boundary.
1. White Rabbit

"What are you doing, young lady?" It's not an everyday thing, you know. I promise that it isn't; it would really be comic if it were. Something totally innocent, you understand. Nothing criminal; nothing that warrants _this_. And still, still, magically, there's just... _That_. It's like opening the fridge and finding Gandhi there. What do you do when there's some Indian dude in a diaper cradling a cabbage ornamented with Louis Armstrong's face, its thickly furrowed leaves strumming a Spanish guitar, serenading you with a _narcocorrido_? Exactly. There really is no answer.

And still, here we are. Not with Gandhi in the fridge, but there's a syrupy steeping stillness, and it's enameled itself on every _inch_ , and the summer's sodden swelter invades, or maybe it's only spring, but the city's not only _hot_ , no, no, no, _hot_ is Antarctica beside this, and there are curling toes and the spine strains and arches and your head is thrown back and you're _curtained_ in hair like thick melting chocolate that's smeared itself through the sweat painted on every inch.

And it's so so so _so_ close. Oh, more than close. You understand, that _instant_ when you're _there_ ; fundamentally, essentially, elementally there, and it's only the last few formalities, and the lips are drawn taut in a brutal little snarl and the teeth are bared like a wolf's fangs and your eyes can't even tear themselves open because the lids' weight is just too _great_. When the door's half-open and you're already poised to invade, and you're already reflecting on where you'll set the plates and the table and you're meditating on furnishings, mmm, mmm, that wallpaper is just _not_ that fantastic, and...

And it's broken.

Suddenly.

A voice.

How. The. _Hell_. How can there be a voice _here_? Eyes springing open and the universe is a tangle of hair and breath that should be painted across the eyes like some manga flourish and there're fingers groping and they're still there. Steepled at that communion of thighs and hips and they're more than _wet_. Drenched. Oh, oh, oh, yes, they are. More than drenched.

Toes trembling.

There are fleeting images; strange phantasmagorical bits of sight and sound and they're more than fantasies. Can it be a fantasy if it's waking, _lived_ , if it flowers through you fucking _possesses_ you? That's what I thought.

It's a divinity.

Beautiful word. _Immanence_. That's what it is. An _immanence_ ; a god animating the flesh, and it's only captured a familiar guise. A beautiful one. He's there; his hands are _still_ there. The kisses' long lingering warmth; the awareness of something only a _micron_ beyond the eyes, eclipsing your sight, the palms cradling your shoulders, lips buried into hair and _grazing_ the nape's faint dimple with electrifying frenzy.

Venus' cleft cradled, adored, adulated with the palms.

Shuddering.

Convulsive.

And it's just _gone_ ; vanished banished expunged effaced from this universe and _she_ is there. It isn't to complain about the geometry. Obviously. The round hips and the long long legs and the, well, the hair's lush lavish _hugeness_. The eyes are absolutely diabolic. That's the word. And they're leering. At. Me.

"W-what the hell do you want?" It's almost archetypal. It's one of the Prophets, you know. Any faith. Unperturbed, tending your fields or meditating in a cavern or tripping your ass off on some exotic constellation of chemistries, and then a Voice thunders from the heavens.

 _You! Mortal! Listen to me!_

And the Mortal is obligingly numbed with terror and incredulity and it's the simple _intrusion_ in this, really, isn't it?

"You're- who the hell are you, anyway?" A labored half-sit up posture. The thick sheets draped with an affectation of modesty over your tits; half-curtaining your legs.

Peer at the cherry-lacquered nails ornamenting toes trembling with it. Breath heaves; once, twice, again and again and again. Why the _hell_ is this woman here? The face is more than _diabolic_ ; there's a wicked sneering self-satisfaction in the smile that's a leopard's peering down at you from a limb about a half-inch from your throat, and there's that epiphany.

 _I have you._

Yes. That's the message.

The eyes are liquid anthracite; the lips are burgundy. The complexion's not only pale but a very artful cadaverousness that's simply _colorless_. Pallid like bleached cream smeared with freshly-drawn milk and is it obvious yet?

This shouldn't _be_.

Oh, yeah, and the kimono, of course. The hair like obsidian plunging down to ankle height. The willowy grace in her proportions; the heavy breasts rearing up through the neckline that's more a glimpse of the Grand Canyon.

Wow.

Plump; nipples intuited as faint waxing inklings of peach.

"Why, I'm a goddess, of course."

"Of _course_ you are. And I'm clearly just sleeping off _something_. Whoa. You know, when Haibara brought over that new, ah, _elixir_ ," of the gods, of the _divine_ , oh, yeah, "She said I'd see god, but I _reaaaallly_ expected it when I was still tripping.

"Not _now_ -"

"I'm not _that_ kind of goddess, you loopy stoner schoolgirl." Ah. Aren't we forthright? "Don't you see, my dear?" There's an achingly elegant grace in all of this. A languorous pirouette that's simply _musical_ , chiming with an Anita Ward symphony with her toes' entrancing whisper over the tatami.

It's not a _lengthy_ jaunt; it's a three tsubo apartment. And there's still a sense of eternity in it. Transfixed.

A dog's fervor; riveted to the modest tawny arcs that peer with enchantment above the kimono's lavish silk collar.

"Well, lay it on me, then, goddess- _chan_ -"

"Call me that, and I _will_ bring down Heaven's Wrath on you, darling. Now, now, won't you accord my _eyes_ a glance, dear one?"

"Nah. I'm cool-"

"I'm going to count to _three_." It's ominous, ain't it? The chirruping insouciance that promises hellfire and electricity coruscating from the fury-stained clouds in their thick drifts.

"And then?"

"One."

"What? I'm serious-"

" _Two_ -"

"Alllll _right_. In all fairness, if you intrude on some chick petting the kitty and brandishing _those_ tits, you can realistically expect some interest."

"Duly noted, Ayumi- _chan_."

"Hey, hey, _hey_ , Goddess- _chan_. Why are _you_ bein' so informal with _me_?"

"Who's the goddess here, Ayumi- _chan_? Who's the one who can invite the Wrath of Heaven in roof-splitting violence? Convulsions of thunder? Care for an illustration?"

"Please. Please. _Now_ you have my attention." Well... "'kay, in all fairness, you could've just read the name-plate on my apartment door and just clambered- hey, waitaminute! You look _exactly_ like that sexy older lady that moved in next door-"

"Pay no mind to that. I'm here to deliver a beneficent message of the _divine_ to you, darling." Knelt now with a flair that surpasses human ambition in its elemental somatic _artfulness_.

"'kay. I'm still _really_ fuckin' high-"

"I noticed. Your pupils don't just look blown; they look like ground-zero at Hiroshima-"

"Still too soon."

"Fine, fine, _fine_." There is a dazzlingly grandiose poise in her posture, in the hair stirred with long lovely fingers. "But, ah, I come bearing divine tidings."

"Sure. Of what?"

"You should _not_ be doing that."

"Doing what? Petting the kitty? Polishing the pearl? The hell not? It's not as if anyone's doing it for- hey, hey, _hey_!" Epiphany. "Is this like that porno manga I was reading-"

"Stop reading porno manga! Toss out that crap."

"Why?"

"Because you're a nubile and lovely young woman. Look at those long legs. Those breasts. Those hips. That _ass_ , honey-"

"Well, tell everyone _else_ that. This is a eunuch culture. They'd rather fuck two-dee than even _bother_ with some three-dee."

"What about Haibara?"

"Do I know you?" Squinting now at her.

"I know _you_. I can peer into your _soul_." Fingers, fine, long, long, lovely, achingly delicate, lacing through my hair now. "You reek of _sex_. It's divine. But it's like having a meal alone. What's the beauty in that, even if it's the finest gourmet elegance?"

"Flavor-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_." It's condescending, that admonition. It's only a _micron_ from one lovely lissome finger being waggled before your nose like a puppy's snout.

So why not lavish it with a kiss?

Quick; a sharp sudden _warmth_.

And there is awe. Electricity coiling, coruscating through her; a celestial _aura_ conjured, coaxed into being in a breath.

"Mortal! What temerity-"

"What? I couldn't resist it. Mmm... You _taste_ like pussy-"

"That's beside the point. And how would _you_ know? You're not a virgin?"

" _Moi_?" _Enchante_? "Clearly not."

"That _is_ what I thought. Oh! But if _all_ are transfixed with their two-dee girls-"

"Haibara- _chan_ , you know. A few others. I never claimed there's _nothing_ , you know-"

"You're just feasting on some solipsistic better-living-through-chemistry _one-person_ lust for want of anything else to do?"

"Don't judge me, lady-"

"That would be _kami-sama_."

"Whatever." Hands flung up. "You know, I was only about- about one _stroke_ away-"

"That's why I came. With an offer. Well, more an admonition. Well, more an order, really. A divine ordinance." It's preening, peremptory. Damn, _ostentatious_ in that. In the fine long finger clasped on the pert plump lips.

"Oh, come _on_. You're serious? An authentic goddess-"

"How else would I know your name? I'm a _very_ precious goddess; a fertility goddess. Haven't you noticed? Of course you have. You were complaining. Your fantasies are going unfulfilled. It's not only _yours_ , you know, Ayumi- _chan_.

"Even poor, poor Haibara."

"What about her?"

"Well, it's a culture of self-abnegation now. Very very _very_ few seem to appreciate the visceral _bliss_ in sex. Consensual lust. Not love; not explicitly. Just _hunger_. It's an anorexic culture. Everyone's content with the _effigy_ ; everyone is satisfied with the image, the likeness. It's a perverse two-dimensional culture."

"Can't argue with you-"

"You're a religions scholar."

"Amongst other talents."

"I've come to anoint you my _prophet_."

"Ah. Of course. I _am_ still stoned off my ass-"

"You are not stoned off your ass! You dare question the _Divine_?" And there it is. The deep bellow like tolling thunder, the voice's great dimensions its vast hypertrophic shoulders displacing walls and crumpling reality's boundaries.

"Whoa-"

"You're damn right, _whoa_! I am a celestial tyrant! I am a figure of terror! I conjure horror amongst mere mortals! And you dare to intimate that you're just _stoned_ , addled with your chemical artifices?" Damn, she's upset.

The cheeks flaring burgundy.

The eyes _carnation_.

Shit.

"A-ah, well, I- I guess you've persuaded me."

"Good." Prim and graceful; not _unruffled_ , because reality's simply been, oh, _laundered_. As surely as any corporation's accounting books. There is no longer even any _inkling_ that it ever could have been otherwise. "I anoint you with my wisdom.

"Dareth thee-"

"Wha?"

"It's about _decorum_ , Ayumi- _chan_."

"'kay-"

"Not _'kay_."

"All _right_. _Yes_ , verily I... Taketh unto myself thine, uh-"

"Great and Glorious Wisdom of Shirobotan- _kami_."

"Ah, yes, I taketh-"

"Can the haughty affectations. We _are_ speaking Japanese, y'know? Modern Japanese." And berated _again_.

"Fine, fine. I take unto myself the Great and Glorious Wisdom of Shirobotan- _kami_. Whoa. You're _The_ Shirobotan-"

"None other, darling."

"That, ah, I'm either indulging the planet's lengthiest and most _dazzling_ hallucination, or this is an incredible morning. So, ah... Am I, what, _suffused_ with your supernatural aura-"

"Well, obviously not, y'loopy beauty."

"What, then?"

"I _bestow_ it." And the smile is now not only serene haughty tyranny but _hunger_ ; something that you could call _wolfish_ if the wolf's horrifying hypertrophic pleistocene antecedent were still lurking in forests, the eyes sharp shimmering platters that could probably accommodate fifteen-course meals. There is a ravenous esurient _madness_ in it.

The essence of flesh.

Lust personified.

"Ah, how-"

"You know how. You already have the _perfect_ wardrobe for it, Ayumi- _chan_."

"I- I don't mind just _Ayumi_ -"

"Even better. Now, now, don't even _whisper_ this superstition about me not existing. It's just not polite." Fingers; fingers. A universe of fingers. Of the hair whispering over her cheeks; the faint furtive sibilance in breath that flares the chest and inflames the flesh and there is now only _awe_ in the eyes. Beholding a divinity in sensual candor; in the fingers laced through the kimono's collar. She is sublimity in flesh.

"Wow." Convulsive with it now. "Wow-"

"It's obvious why you're doing _so_ well in your writing courses-"

"Quiet, you, Miss Goddess. I'm just awed with all of this. You're incredible." It is sexual geometry in its sainted exoticisms. In the confluence of the angular, the vulpine jaw and the brutal sharp eyes and the teeth like fangs, and the sumptuously sinuous. Uninterrupted and unbroken vistas of curvaceous flesh; the shapely long long endlessly long legs, damn, damn, damn, there're enough _legs_ for probably three women.

The elegant slim toes and the quirking fingers and the nails trimmed to lililicious perfection and the breasts are a roundness that pours down down down to the firm belly that's still kissed like the hips with fat's tiniest most indispensable elegance.

The navel's delicate divot.

"Come, come, Ayumi."

"Of course." Dragged closer, and closer, and closer. Not with hands and not with fingers and not even with her voice. It is something visceral, fundamental. Animal. Insectile, maybe, a bee teased ineluctably into the fine petals sticky with syrupy aromas and it is hot and sweet and _luscious_.

"Oh, oh, _this_ is what I wanted, you know, Ayumi. You're so _beautiful_ ; that long black hair. You dye it, don't you?"

"Yeah-"

"Why is _that_?" It's oh so _knowing_.

"Who cares?" It's a puppyish zeal; a cheek brushed with a languid _nuzzle_ against a thigh. Soft; softer than the word _soft_ can accommodate in its endless plush universe. "Ah! Ah! Oh, Shirobotan- _kami_ -"

"Shiro. Please."

"Shit, you're so _luscious_. God, it feels like I'm touching oiled silk. This skin is _divine_." Well, _duh_.

"Well, _duh_. Ah. Ah. Ah." In recline; in the lover's archetypal repose. There is something quintessential in this. Yes. Yes. Yes. Humors never in balance. Why should they be? I am inflamed with madness; it is something more delirious _already_ than the most joyful joy bang. It is a tongue flitting along the knees; tasting and adoring the ankles. Up and down and down and up and why should there be anything like orderliness?

Order _dies_ here.

A quiet and undignified demise while her fingers shudder with a madness that animates every cell steeping in the most sumptuous _junk_. It's junk, isn't it? Heroin's perfection; morphine's feathery cradling caresses. And still animated with a crazed urgency like shabu. It bubbles and strains and pulsates through every vein.

It flares through every artery.

I am enchanted.

I am _devoured_ in this.

"Ah, ah, ah!" To be serenaded with a divine voice, and there's no longer anything but the supremest _certainty_ now. "Ah. Oh, oh, _Ayumi_. Oh, _me_ -"

"Wha?" Peering up into her eyes; lips only _microns_ now from those. It's an unreality. Always, always, to know that strange twisted mirror image of yourself.

The elemental essence in that symmetry; in woman and woman. That luscious vertical smile; the plump soft lips clasped together and they still slip open with a candid hunger, a breath in perfume that no chemistry could ever fabricate.

It is awe. Always.

"Well, I can't say _goddess_ , can I? It'd be a bit ridiculous-"

"I think saying _me_ is even sillier-"

"Quiet, you. Why don't you have some breakfast?"

"Oh, I couldn't-"

"I _insist_." Well, if you _insist_.

"I give thanks for..." Whatever. Hungry, hungry. More than _hungry_. I have trudged through desert with only fantasies of nourishment to sustain me, and now there are the words all-you-can-eat. I will _gorge_. Gorge and gorge and gorge but first, first, there must be the hors d'oeuvres.

A kiss.

A _gasp_.

Breath hitching in the chest and pluming up and it is something explosive now. Flavor invades; the lips are more than delectable. A syrupy honeyed delirium and it is an instant-onset contact high like mating with a heroin needle.

"Oh, _goddess_." Why not be polite with her? "You taste like Amaterasu's own Ramune." There is laughter; there is a sudden strangled whisper a mewl a deep heavy guttural moan when a tongue goddess goddess goddess _my_ tongue, this strange sense of the impossible in everything, when it's suddenly slowly _draggggggggggggged_ through the luscious skin.

Dipping into that fount that boils with desire.

With _her_.

And suddenly, suddenly, there can be no language at all. Thought dies while sensuality flourishes; while everything at once is only lust's geographies tasted. Her palms and fingers and they're twisting through hair sodden and matted with sweat and it's to know your breasts' own heavy fall and the muscle lean and wiry and the poise predatory.

"Yeah. Yeah. Ayumiiii-"

"Yes, Goddess?" How can you refuse this? How can you reject this? The fingers' play along her thigh's sumptuous skin; a thick curtain brushed away from the eyes. There is hunger lust craving madness _fanaticism_.

This is a drug that cannot find purchase in the vein.

It is to abandon anything like sanity; it is to renounce this world and to dwell in it at once. To invite a divinity into your body; for this communion this _immanence_ to lurk in a place of curling toes and sheets blackening with sweat and her body and _yours_ his body and yours _our_ bodies at once.

A world of _yes_.

Slathering; kissing; straining.

"I- I want it. I want it. I want it-"

"But you're getting it, Goddess-"

"You're teasing me like you own the joint."

"I'm at least renting it."

"I want you to push your tongue in my divine pussy."

"It _is_ divine." And how can you refuse this delectation? You are being ordered to eat your bodyweight in lust at a buffet. How can you not savor this? And you are silenced now, because this is meal time, and her flavor doesn't only gather but _wreathes_. Swallows me down down down and we are an Ouroboros divinity, because she is eating me while she is being eaten. A snake can only swallow its own tail, however.

A snake cannot traditionally curl its toes and send its tongue lolling out and fasten fingers through hair and _pull_.

A strangled little squeal.

"Touch me. Yeah. Yeah. Put- put your fingers in me, too. I want to feel those _incredible_ lililicious fingers." I am being eaten.

Swallowed down; every thought is fodder for her. And so she is obeyed because you must obey; because this is the most grandiose slavery. Touching and _knowing_ the plump sleekness the _slickness_ the communion in spittle and those laudanum juices and her fragrance wafting up not only to invade but to occupy to _settle_ with indelible monuments to desire in your senses.

There are no words.

Syrup?

No.

Honey?

Nah.

It's opium.

It's _her_.

Tongue's quick squelching wet thrash and stroke and now, now, it can be felt, rising up in the color that boils into her cheeks like melting garnets and there is a shudder and a shiver and there are eyes craning up staring into _hers_ lashes inky quills imprisoning my eyes and her own and there is _this_. Our being together.

"Hah-hah-hah- _haaaah_!" Not laughter and not sobbing but only rejoicing in melodious grades of sound and a presence in lust so thick you could carve it like sashimi with a chainsaw. "Oh, yeah!"

"Yes. Yes. Yes." Tongue liberated with just the _tiniest_ slackening in her hand. "Yes, Goddess-"

"It- it feels so good. Your tongue's like _velvet_ ; like a puppy's tongue." Do. Not. Ask. "I want some, too-"

"Oooh. Should I get the plum jam?"

"You're a twisted little girl, aren't you, Ayumi- _chan_?"

"Happy to be." We are all ironical here, aren't we? And it isn't just to lie back and become the Princess to be served; we must be mutual. We must be _firm_ in our convictions. And it isn't for her to surrender and not for me but two chanbara warriors to _converge_.

Collide.

Mouths and fingers and thighs. Yes, yes, yes.

"Oh, _yes_ , Ayumi-"

"Goddess, I need _more_. I've been a very good girl, yes?" Are we not so beautifully inverted? I will kiss _those_ lips between her thighs, and now I will kiss another pair. They are not so perpendicular; much much less ungainly.

So sweet.

Oh so sweet.

Plump and pillowy like those grandiose huge heavy breasts that command the word _tits_. They are beautiful; my hands are there, and hers finally finally finally _electrify_ on mine. I am being electrified. I am being _tormented_ with the huge scrawling lightning strokes that race through every nerve that flay them raw and then tease them with serrated blades daubed in carnal poisons.

Ha ha ha ha.

This is the voice now.

Lips slipping together with a sticky elegance. Tongue stroked on her tongue; slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, because there is no urgency. There is only a desperate crashing crunching pummeling need a _craving_ roaring between my ears.

Behind my eyes.

Paintings like Caravaggio in chiaroscuro madness; there is a sexual tenebrism, you understand. Racing from absolute dark to absolute light. It is largely dark, because the real _depth_ flourishes in the dark. Falling against her; hands _melt_ into those incredible tits. Her mouth and my mouth and it is a quick darting collision and convergence and _falling_ away from her now.

"I want it. I want you; I _waaant_ you, Goddess." Craving her. Beseeching her.

"Climb on, then, honey." Yes. Yes.

We are all honey.

I am become honey. Dripping that sticky lubricious need over her lips and her cheeks are now nestled between my thighs and there is an awareness of a _perfection_ in this geometry. It would be terrible terrible cliché to suggest we fit together like puzzle pieces. It is nothing so _crude_ ; we are flesh and flesh and flesh and flesh and there is electricity. Suddenly, _dazzling_ , almost disorienting, her tongue's first _flit_ defies credulity.

"Wah!" A sob clawing up up up from my breast. "Oh, _goddess_ -"

"That's right." The voice intrudes; not through the ears but only every inch of my skin. Only every sinew. Toes straining and it's an unreal perfection to admire _hers_.

To adore their curl and strain and for my chest to find purchase on a flat soft belly to know the simple supreme _sleekness_ in a woman's body. Fingers steepled on the communion of thigh and hip; to _dip_ down down down and there's a sudden violent rupture in thought and in deed and in the simple confluence of thought and flesh.

A kiss.

Mischievous and quick and her hair is silk nimbus against my skin.

"A-ah, ah, ah-"

"Exactly, Ayumi." Mourn the interruption; adore the hot husky quiver rearing up from unknowable places that still lie _there_ on your body.

Shivering.

Kiss her.

Fall down down down and there's nothing like patience now. It's a delicious number, isn't it? In shuddering thighs and her very toe-tips _planted_ on the bare tatami, bits of fabric bound under us, wriggling and writhing and _rolling_ , a wave wrought from two at once, breakers melting on a ragged shoreline and tumbling back out and returning again.

And again.

Her voice and mine.

Fingers plunge lunge deeper and deeper and deeper and her ankles entrance; her pussy, also, that sleek overripe pinkness like a freshly-plucked guava, and the fragrance that cannot be placed _anywhere_ in nature but exactly where it is in sensual tautology. Her toes _twisting_ over the tatami; her skin eaten, eaten, eaten.

I am a glutton.

A gourmand.

How can I not be?

Plunge down and pitch up and it is to be borne aloft on her tongue; dance on it while mine is simply leaden, spearing splitting the flesh eating and eating and eating and _eating_. More. This is my world. This simple fundamental word.

 _More_.

Beside _yes_ , there is nothing lovelier.

A long straining vulpine _jerk_ when her fingers melt into her tongue; when there's a perfection in a touch brushed with an achingly dainty deliberation across that spongy soft skin. I must indulge her.

"Wah- aha, ah, ah, Ayumi- _chan_ , that's... So good. So good. I- I want... Ah..." Because there is only the quickening. More and more and more and it is her fingers and her fingers are, of course, _divine_. How could they not be? I am an acolyte.

A supplicant on my knees wrapped around her cheeks.

"I'm gonna come, Goddess-"

"You already have. Fifty times-"

"StopcountingandIdon'tjustmeanlikethat!" I am very proud of my elocution, also.

"W-wha-"

"Just like that. Don't don't don't don't _don't_ stop. Please, please, _please_ , Goddess!" Bear down and if she will not ease herself any closer the meal will be brought to her, the silly Goddess. "Hyah!"

Explosion.

It _is_ something like what the mind supplies for a nuclear blast.

It must be suddenly impossibly _still_.

The birds, theirs is a transcendental wisdom. Their chirruping will be quieted. The squirrels will abandon their chattering. The children will be suddenly painfully _still_.

There is a hush.

An awe.

And it arrives.

With thunder so great it does not deafen but transcend sound, it arrives.

Bearing down.

Trees flattened. Wood becomes ash and stone becomes dust.

 _This_ is its essence. Wailing, squalling, voice suddenly so _high_ that it melts off to ranges that'll probably have dogs wailing for at least a thousand kilometers.

"Ah! Hah! Hyah!" Almost to bewail it like ululations, like lamentations. Screeching into nothing and it's rearing up and it's almost the sense of incontinence, and not at all. _Spraying_ out; rearing and rising and pouring up and it's greasy and thick and delirious and delicious and there's laughter welling from between my thighs.

"Oh, oh, _wow_ -"

"Goddess, that's so fucking amazing-"

"You're gonna make- make _me_ , too, Ayumi. Your fingers; use your fingers; lick my pearl-"

"Of course." Dive down down down and it's the tongue's flit and flicker and thrash. Eating her; eating her. Swallowing her down and fingers dagger quickly quickly now stirring and coaxing and coiling up and brushing with deft firm prods along that soft luscious skin and everything is madness.

A dewy delirium smeared on the lips.

A hot and almost acrid fragrance that anyone would wear like perfume.

Silencing her.

Silenced _with_ her.

Her legs twist.

Pivot.

 _Laced_ in their extravagant length over my shoulders and it's something a bit nearer to judo than you'd expect and who could even care? Pulled down down down and _melting_ into her and we're now only one and I am _very_ happy about this.

Bleary and crumpling into the soft wet skin.

Licking.

Laving.

'til even _her_ patience is...

Well, not exhausted.

"T-that's enough now, Ayumi- _chan_. Even _mine_ gets a little raw after that long." But I am esurient. I am _inexhaustible_.

Insatiable.

"I'm still so _hungry_ , Goddess." Kiss her, and kiss her. Animal and predatory.

"Then goeth and seek new prey. Or whatever. I'm going to take my leave now, Ayumi- _chan_. But I've given you a _very_ precious gift."

"Squirting in my mouth?"

" _Aside_ from that. I've given you a power you'll feel _very_ soon. Now, take a shower and wear your nicest and sluttiest clothes."

"'kay." Woe and regret.

"Close your eyes, Ayumi. Close your eyes and nap and you will _taste_ it." While Shiro's simple _being_ melts away with a fugitive mischievous grace into a gloom huddled in heavy post-coital shadow around the eyes.

The universe is sodden sexual delirium.

White knights talking backwards.

Red Queen's off with her head.

Remeeeeeeembaaaah. Yes. Yes. What _did_ the dormouse say, and who can really aspire to care? Ah, ah, ah, _not I_. Oh, no, no, no.

"Whoa!" Surfacing from a fever-dream thrall; fingers knotted on... On flesh; only _my_ flesh. Absolutely nothing more than that. It's not even to blink it away, because how can you blink away an ocean in sweat that's settled in your eyes?

A rap at the door. Yes, yes, yes. Staggering upright and _clearly_ some mischievous gnome has assiduously stitched gelatin into every bone, because there is only a weary quaver throbbing through every limb. It is a struggle; it is an ordeal in every step, slapping wet with perspiration on the tatami. I am become _sweat_ ; the half-open window admits the daylight that _isn't_ now, is it?

Dusk; sodden and heavy and layered over every inch. Squint through the peephole and it's Haibara.

She is very clothed.

Too bad.

So sad.

It is lovely, isn't it? The graceful lissome allure; the fine pert chest and the auburn hair wafting down along the shoulders with a careless toss and the fingers are long and slim and the nails are eternally trimmed not in deference to lililicious lusts but they're such an _asset_ for that, also.

"Hey, Ayumi- _chan_! I know you're in there." That _voice_ ; that husky heavy chain-smoking-whiskey-marinated voice. Shuddering between the thighs.

"I'm here, Haibara- _chan_. I had the most _aaaaamazing_ fucking dream. Was it the stuff you gave me-"

"It was a school day, y'know. Everyone was wondering where you were in lecture."

"Ah? You're serious?" There's epiphany.

Right.

That staining sepia haze _ain't_ the morning twilight.

It's the evening; it's casting your eyes out from the balcony behind you and the city's _bathed_ in a mist darkening to tangerine, reddening to garnet, an ugly lurid purpling bruise unfurling its great corona around the bits of rearing architectural priapism.

Damn.

A structural measuring contest. Always and forever and effulgent with the lights in their convoluted multitudes and _explosive_ with neon.

"Mmm. I guess so-"

"Mind if I come in?"

"Uh- _uh_. I'd love to tell you. Quickly, quickly." Ah, ah, such _nonchalance_ at a glimpse of skin. Skin in its elegant acreages.

"You're totally naked."

"Yup." A glance down.

And up.

Her fine kitten-heeled sandals eased off and lovely soft bare feet, _remarkably_ fine and, well, dainty, yield a quiet rasp on the tatami.

"God, I hate your apartment, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Oh, _fine_. It's a student efficiency. We don't _aaaallll_ have the luxury of cohabiting with horny old men." Arms wound around my chest. "But at least _I_ actually grew tits when I, ah, grew up." Squinting at her; at the huge thick leather satchel slung over a shoulder.

"Oh, _that_ was mature." There is an unselfconscious maturity in the mien, the manner. Always, always; just apposite for the face now. The high sharp bones and the stern lips and the angular _western_ eyes like faceted sapphires sedulously rinsed of anything like unease in a sainted celestial stream.

An adult blouse in cream; skirt layered around the shapely thighs in tan.

"Well, _sorry_. I feel a little weird. That stuff you gave me yesterday was fucking _incredible_. I saw god. Well, a goddess, anyway."

"You're serious? Well, ah, I mean... I came 'cause I wanted to tell _you_ that it had _no_ effect on me at all. Doc got a little handsy-"

"He's _always_ handsy."

"'xactly. I like it like _that_. But it didn't exactly do _anything_ for me. Anyway, ah... Did it turn ya on? I'm kind of worried I might've sorta-kinda _extemporized_ a new aphrodisiac."

"Oh, you know me, _Ai-chan_ -"

"Don't call me that. You _know_ I hate it when you call me that; it creeps me out."

"Oh, in that soft little-girl voice?" Soaring up up up in pitch; a fragile trilling coo. "Maybe I should call you _Sheeeee-_ "

"Say it and _die_ , Shirley Temple."

"Yeesh. Isn't _someone_ a little irritable? Want a joint?"

"Sure." The hips' languid cock; you can _feel_ it. A sense of yourself from without. Empathy through her eyes; an awareness of the stare settling on your nape when fingers grope at the heap tucked into the pathetic kitchenette that's less an _ette_ and more a nano-kitchen. The most perfunctory clutch of what you'd _identify_ with the word kitchen.

If kitchens were devised for the Lollipop Guild, anyway.

"Tea, Haibara?"

"Sure. Real tea, or _that_ tea?"

"Both." The cigarettes're perfect, wrenched out of a cupboard with groping fingers; her lighter's already coaxed into a palm in an instant. It's a brilliant lovely thing; a silvered martial thing in stainless steel, ornamented with greasy fingerprints that whirl like a van Gogh in the deepening dusk. Fire rears up with a thumb's quick rasp along the flint, once, twice, thrice, coughing and coughing like a smoker in an asthma ward and...

There we are.

There is a greasy creamy plume from the joint.

"Oh, that is _looovely_ , Ayumi- _chan_. Seriously. Where the hell do you _get_ this, anyway?"

"Wouldn't _you_ love to know? I have my sources."

"It's Sonoko, right?" Damn.

"Yeah; that's right. The Suzuki keiretsu? Such an _asset_ for smuggling." Drink down the luscious grass smoke; taste it staining the lungs in treacly painterly grades.

"Why the _hell_ do you still live in this little craphole, anyway?"

"'cause I'm a _university student_. University students live in shitholes unless they have, I dunno, a lovely lil' sugar-daddy to leech off of. An insecure over-the-hill researcher, for instance, who _still_ miraculously can flag it up-"

"He's a nice guy. What can I say? Not too demanding; a nice tongue; good skin-"

"You're describing a goldendoodle."

"Goldendoodles don't have a schlong like that. I'm amazed. It's _incredible_. 'sides, the guy feels like a teddy bear. All nice and soft and warm. 'sides, he's gotten better. I'm _always_ kicking him into doing more exercise.

"He has great stamina, at least."

"Someone's in love."

"What about you and _Conan-kun_ -"

"Quiet, you." Huddled around the joint; it is my universe's center. Its axis.

"So, what's with this _incredible_ dream? You saw god-"

"I saw a _goddess_. I had an epiphany, you know."

"An epiphany, y'say?" Now, now, there is the ethnopharmacologist's native inquisition. It is an antechamber to philosophy; something nearer to the subjective than the fanciful figments of absolutes in the sciences.

To adore these entheogens.

These communions with the divine.

Those psychic portals to the _glorious_.

"That's right. An _epiphany_."

"What _kind_ of epiphany?"

"Call it a vision."

"Shit. Not every day a girl has a vision. Is this an authentic come-to-Jesus thing?"

"Aren't _we_ being American again?" There is a sharp glint in the smile; in the fangs brandished.

"Oh, _please_. You know I'm an American girl at heart-"

"Even if not in body."

"Those _big_ tits of yours."

"And this ass." A twist; a palm's wet _crack_ on what you could really only liken to a hugely overripe pert plump peach. "These hips-"

"So you've got an AV model's physique. Good. For. _You_." The joint gutters in outstretched fingers; her eyes narrow to slits like a dyspeptic kitten. " _Aaanyway_ -"

"I saw a goddess of... Something. She gave me an epiphany; a _vision_. I suddenly _felt_ it." Hands splayed out on the counter. "I _saw_ it. I _knew_ it."

"Knew what?"

"What I was supposed to _do_ with my life. I _hate_ all this privation, you know. All this frustration. At least you have your huge-cock teddy bear, which is _still_ one of the weirdest images you could dredge up. You're the lean slim lissome beauty-"

"I like big guys. What? You like that jerk, ah, _Conan_ -"

"Quiet. It's an adolescent crush." A soft little murmur around the joint. "I miss him."

"Ah-"

"Oh, if only he hadn't died in that tragic Zamboni accident-"

"He did _not_." Haibara's laughter's still lovely, isn't it, the tinkle of seraphim like rarefied smoke on the ears.

"Fine, fine, _fine_. It's just that obsession with Ran, y'know-"

"Yeah. Y'know, that girl... I'm kind of amazed she hasn't put the dagger in his gut yet."

"She will. Eventually. He'd be the last to know it, too. I _love_ his blindness; total opacity. Just like Sherlock Holmes. I'm a Lupin girl, honestly. But I saw it. D'ya know what it told me to do? This vision?"

"Seek a career in opaque gibberish?"

"Nah. I'm already studying religions." Closer now.

The joint stubbed out; it's a sticky thick delirium draped over every nerve.

It's fingers clasped on her cheeks.

"Ah-"

"She showed me something _precious_ , Haibara. I'm serious. She showed me the _world_ -"

"Dude." How can we not? How can we not gorge ourselves on this, and laugh and laugh and laugh our fill?

"Totally." Because it's her lips so so _so_ near.

The familiar.

The achingly luscious.

Yes.

The fingers and hands and cheeks and the mouths. The awareness of a flush rearing up through her skin; that American pallor that's color absolutely denied. It is a creamy softness that could only be painted in gradations of cream on whitewash; it is a lie and a figment and still reality while lips converge.

Slowly, slowly. There is an _ineffable_ quality in women, you understand. Men can be very lovely. When they emulate women. But it's native and elemental for girls. It is the tiger, and not the lion; it is something padding delicate deliberate. The rustle of hot fur through thick jungle roiling and riotous with steam low-slung cradling perfumed rivers.

It is warmth and warmth; it is fingers lacing through her hair in its spare and satiny allure and hers _twisting_ into mine and there is still a symmetry. Nakedness and fabric-draped skin; we are all nude, anyway, aren't we?

Unashamed and unpretentious. Imagery prised from others' fertile imaginations. Not Izanagi and Izanami but Adam and Eve or maybe it's 'Adam and Hawa or maybe it's just Eve and Lilith. Whichever. I'm not the sort to deny myself the bliss in mounting a lover with frenzy and heaving animal hunger.

But this is so _gentle_. A kiss. The lips' first achingly delicate confluence. Warm wet absolutely _delectable_. The tongues' quick flit together.

"God, you kiss like I can't believe." And this is our consensus when there is a pause; a fleeting moment not to recapture your breath but just to linger on it. "Ayumi, _when_ did you learn to kiss like that?"

"Maybe _where_ -"

"You're such a total lez."

"I'm happy to be a lily, you know, Haibara. I'm _very_ happy to be totally lavishly lililicious. Look at this body. This is not a body that rides a motorcycle-"

"You _own_ a motorcycle."

"Details, details." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it's _movement_ now. Violent and crashing and her bare feet backpedaling over the bare tatami and there's a faint little _rattle_ when a portrait's disturbed in its purchase on the wall. Fingers laced with hers; slapped up along the wall that's grotty not with grease or neglect but just _age_.

Accumulated life.

A mustiness that's _time_ in this place.

Lust.

Sex.

"Jesus, you smell just like pussy, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Oh, I think we can twist off that _chan_ an' toss it away, Ai. You have the _loveliest_ name, you know. Ai. Ai. Ai. _Ai_ - _tan_ -"

"Drive me crazy with kiddy crap like that." A murmur that you could not only _taste_ but smear on bread. It's something incredible; an intensity that defies anything like boundary. It creeps up through you falls down through the floor _cradles_ you in its hands and tosses you away with electricity ripping up through every inch. "You're such a total Lizzie, Ayumi-"

"Oooh, I like that. Is that from America?" Devour the eyes.

Inhale the breath.

The arching spine when fingers _prick_ at her taut belly.

"Hasn't _someone_ been exercising lately, Haibara?"

"What about _you_? Ran must be jealous. She's letting herself go a little-"

"She's just _softer_. I like that in girls."

"Just not you?"

"Hypocrisy's every scholar's right, honey." Lap and lave at the throat; know the simple shuddering _delirium_ in the long slow syrupy moan creeping through her lips.

"A-ah, ah, ah, oh, god, Ayumi-"

"You know, I can still do the voice-"

"Don't you _dare_."

" _Ai-chaaaan_." And there it is. The _shudder_.

"Y-you sound like a fuckin' eight-year-old-"

"Exactly. You pedo. You're such a lolicon, aren't'cha, Ai- _taaaan_. You were getting wet over me when I was eight and you _looked_ -"

"Shut- shut _up_ , all right?" And there's still only a treacly tendril _unfurling_ from fingers slipped deeper deeper deeper, plunging between her thighs.

Tasting the satiny skin; knowing _that_ dark honeyed place.

Admire it; feel the faintly _tacky_ quality when it's brushed between fingertips.

"Mmm. I hope _someone_ is on the pill-"

"Well, _duh_." Murmuring, whispering. There is a collision of fronts tolling with thunder and roiling with lightning. "C-c'mon, Ayumi-"

"I can't _believe_ you're still fucking the doc. That's just..."

" _Like, ohmygawd_ -"

"I didn't mean it like _that_. Don't tease me; my IQ's probably higher than _yours_ , Ai- _tan_." Tongue dragged from her lips with a quick _stab_.

"H-hah, hah, oh, oh, you're gonna make me-"

"I'm gonna make you _what_?"

"I didn't come here for you ta bring me off. I came here so I could get a report on m-m-my-"

"My _what_?" Another stroke; slowly, now, stirring that delirious juicy place.

"You're _really_ derailing my train of thought-"

"Too bad. Think of all those poor orphans now. Do you _know_ how many innocent men and women you've killed? It was rush hour; they're just _bodies_ now. Just _meat_. Why, I think that's an arm, and that one's a head.

"Oh, no! That one's a kitten-"

"S-shut up." Head simply _flung_ back; a heedless crazed thing and it's only a point of miracle that it's not a concussion on the wall. "S-shut shut shut up-"

"Oh, that one's _two_ kittens; why, they're just-"

"S-shut... Ah... Hyah!" Yes, yes, a _hyah_. Something crazed and lupine and it's absolutely delirious, _savoring_ those heavy thick cloying strands dribbling out onto your palm.

"Wow, he _really_ filled ya up. When there's _this_ much, shouldn't you wear a tampon or something-"

"I didn't think a certain someone'd be jamming their fingers up my pussy." Well, well, _well_. Isn't a certain someone _else_ just profane?

"Oh, _Ai-tan_." And it's irresistible, tongue outstretched to flit and flicker and thrash at that creamy bliss. "Y'know, the doc actually tastes pretty delicious. It's probably _you_ , though. There's _so_ much of your juice, Ai.

"I'm seriously jealous. How _much_ you cream-"

"It's how much you _made_ me." Cooing and giggling and there's only a dewy _mushy_ quality between your ears. Oozing and sloshing and spattering at your skull. "God, you just dragged that out of me-"

"Want some?" Pour more and more and more; the panties just slipped away. There's an awareness, a deeper sense, a second sight, fine, fine, an act of empathy without chemistry and without telepathy. A knowledge of the hunger gushing from her.

Radiates in huge sharp cross-hatched strokes; a manic celestial artist's design.

"Mmm... I want something else. You've kinda flipped my switch-"

"Naughty, _naughty_ Ai- _tan_. Won't the doc be jealous?"

"You know we have, ah, an _understanding_. I don't mind when he sees _his_ women-"

"How can that dude have _women_?"

"He's kind of irresistible. I don't know what it is. Maybe he's sorta a silver fox, y'know, Ayumi? Have _you_ ever tried it-"

"Yuck. No." It's a mutual cringe. Not what you'd call _tactful_.

" _Yuck_?"

"Sorry, _sorry_. Sort of visceral. I didn't mean _that_. I just don't really like older men. Well, unless it's Kogorou. I can take that one. He _does_ have that Rhett Butler mustache."

"Creepy; seriously creepy-"

"He'll do anything in a skirt."

"I _hope_ you wear with him."

"Most of the time." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Madness suffuses every inch. Every fiber _twangs_ with sexual insanity.

"Oh, _yuck_ -"

"I'm just teasing you, Ai- _chan_. I, ah... I wonder if you wouldn't mind if I had some dessert. That was a _lovely_ meal with the Goddess-"

"Did I make an entheogen?"

"I was thinking about that." There's no patience at all. Don't bother hiking up the skirt; just unfasten the blouse, _slip_ it from her shoulders. Admire the tits in their fine pert grace flowering up from the bra's cradling shelf. A whisper and a coo and a shiver from her lips when thumbs and forefingers settle around them.

A tug at the peachy nipples; a twist and a ripple and now, now, there's something _infernal_ in the eyes.

"You're so fuckin' evil, Ayumi. Flicking _all_ my switches like that-"

"Not all of them _yet_."

"N-no?"

"No." Clearly not.

The jaws' snap at the chin.

Her shoulders' shiver.

"Hah-"

"And there's _this_." Falling down, down, down, the bra just slipped away to puddle with her skirt unfastened now at her feet with the blouse and there's almost _regret_. Clothed women are sublime, aren't they?

Not that there's anything amiss with _this_.

With the lean calves and the graceful arching ankles and the shapely thighs; the supremely _womanly_ quality in all of it. Defies the age that isn't age at all; it's a thirtysomething in a twentysomething's body and who can really be troubled at all with it?

"Ayumiii-"

"You sound _just_ like a little girl, you know." When you will dip; when it isn't to be knelt quite yet but just craning, twisting, fingers brushing away the heavy black cables framing your cheeks. Everything is sweat and hunger.

A tongue _dipped_ into her navel; rear up and it's teeth fastened around a nipple's thick plumpness.

"G-god, god, goddamn, you're gonna-"

"Gonna _what_?" Well, something like that. Muttering around that pert plump flesh tucked between lips that scald, teeth that _spear_.

"Gonna- I'm gonna come again!" Shiver; strain.

Toes twist and nails rattle at the wall.

"Holy _fuck_!" A sublime serenade for the neighbors. Tissue paper would be generous for the walls.

"Well, well, Ai- _tan_ -"

"You _know_ how much I love that."

"How much of a masochist you are, ya mean?" And it is a simple truth.

"God-"

"How much you _crave_ this?" Nails like _very_ modest Lizzie talons dragged up up up in furrowing scarlet seams along her belly. "How much you _love_ this?" When nipples aren't just strummed with some achingly fragile Sapphic delicacy, but _pulled_.

Twisted.

This is not to recite Sappho's poetry. This is setting it to a death metal symphony and there is a howl now; a tremor and a quaver and a quiver and a quake and there are knees rattling together and there's only _insanity_ in her face. In rubbery lips and eyes melting down into Aryan sexual psychosis.

"Ayumi, c-c'mon-"

"C'mon _what_?"

"I'm- I'm going crazy. When you do that. You're the only one who does it for me like that-"

"Oh, all this _delicious_ algolagnia." It's the planet's most sumptuous word, isn't it? Is there anything so delectably arcane, so _senselessly_ grandiosely anachronistic as that?

Anything _so perfect_?

"You love it. You _love_ it, don't you, _Ai-tan_ -"

"Don't hit me too hard, all right? He- he gets worried if there're bruises-"

"You mean, he doesn't _like_ bruises." It's insanity. This simple compulsion to indulge, to sate, to _satisfy_. A palm whispers over her cheek; an arm drawn back like a catapult twanging with a violent and irresistible tension and there's a crash.

A squeal from her lips.

"Oh, god-"

"No bruises? Really? And to think that I was _really_ going to go fuckin' crazy-"

"I need to be home by eight tonight."

"It's six-thirty, right? Plenty of time." Drag her closer; fingers slip around the fine swanlike neck and there's only surrender. Only the wilting spine and the knees becoming overwatered gelatin grazed with a crème brûlée torch and there's frenzy. "Come on, come on-"

"Just- just a little, okay?"

"'s fine. But you need to do something for _me_ , all right, honey?" Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Because this is not a transaction but just a _favor_.

Woman and woman.

Dragged over my lap, because this is as it must be.

The strangeness in _height_ ; in not only being taller but _rearing_ over her. To know that there is a disparity in our ages; in our souls. And still, still, she's little more than five-six; and this is to know reality from what's more altitude than anything else.

While her toes rip at the tatami; while her nails _tear_ into the musty fabric.

"Hah! Hah!" While fingers slither and slip up and down up and down; comb through the hair with a lassitude that's _perfect_ control.

Pert nipples thick and angry and swollen and planted into my skin; a hand simply _slammed_ down now without warning and without anything like delicacy. It would be heresy, you know. It would be the deepest cruelty to deprive Ai of her precious algolagnia.

The tension that laces itself up up up through every nerve and the body's every sinew.

The silent tortured screaming _violence_ in the total quietude. When there's a will to drink down every fugitive bit of anguish pouring up from her mouth.

Whimpering.

Wheezing.

Gasping.

A crunching strain hammering down every muscle and there's a tightness that sends her out straight like a wooden plank and slackens her again and her pussy's sweet delirious waters just _pour_ out now. Slosh and spatter and it's an insanity, flowering from between her thighs.

A long deliberate slap.

Once.

And again.

And again.

Cracking at her ass; peer down at the lovely lavish geometries, and they're _sublime_. The tight thick ripe-peach grace; the heavy cleft that _implodes_ down to that pucker forever enchanting in its freshly-bathed perfection. The eyes cannot be seen, because they'd rather not be.

There is a perfected _honed_ self-abnegation in all of this hedonism.

She must pretend.

There must be punishment.

"Come _on_ , Ai. Not even _one_ word?"

"It doesn't hurt at _all_!" There's defiance, of course. Because she _needs_ it; slip fingers through her hair and _yank_ and there's a lip-trembling madness.

The eyes are an ambition to petulance.

A plea for discipline.

"Oh, Ai- _tan_ , I'm not very convinced. It doesn't hurt? When your tight creamy ass is _already_ like an overripe cherry-"

"It doesn't hurt at _all_. You know about my pain tolerance-"

"I know you like to _call_ your masochism pain tolerance." Another slap. Urgent and heavy and _hard_ and the scream can't be swallowed back now.

It's a ragged tortured yowl.

"Ayumi-"

"Oh, it doesn't hurt, right? Right?" While tears have begun to bubble up into the eyes; while the sharp faceted sapphires simply melt down into muddled blue madness. "Right?"

"Ayumi-"

"Does it hurt?"

"No fucking way!" So she must be punished. This is the system, of course. This is the pattern. This is _righteousness_. "No fucking wa-hay-"

"Oh, no? No?" Slap and spank and there's a sadomasochism in it, of course. In the pain that numbs _your_ palm. Staining her with the hand's print in a garnet negative, and there's no restraint. There can _be_ none.

Punish her and reward her with punishment.

Her thighs wet and squelching in their wriggle together. Once and again and again and they're twisting and thrashing and writhing and there's a universe of breathless wet soft spatters and it's a palm snapped at her cheek, because she's being _such_ a truculent little bitch.

"No? No? C'mon, Ai-"

"No! It doesn't hurt!" Sobbing every defiant morsel.

"Tell sis the truth-"

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck-"

"Tell sis the truth. Does it hurt?!" Our games, you understand. The simple fundamental _weirdnesses_ that are absolutely sound and sensible and what you could call _normal_ if it weren't leaden with this prosaic meaning that has no purchase in our world.

"No way! No way!" It's so delicious. This trial. Straining ourselves; torturing ourselves. There are many tribes, many peoples, many cultures, for whom _pain_ is ultimately not bliss or reward or desperate despair but a _passage_ to something else.

An act of transcendence. We must surpass these simple boundaries. We must not _deny_ the pain but internalize it in an act of alchemy like Taoist magic and it must become _pleasure_ for us. We will be men! We will be women!

"I'm- I'm..." It isn't such a rite for Ai.

It's an alchemy that refines lead into gold.

Anguish into orgasm.

She is a machine to twist pain into bliss.

"Hah. Hah. Hah. I'm- I'm gonna-"

"Bad, _bad_ Ai. Big sis can't even _punish_ you." There's a deeper madness in all of it. Adorning yourself as Jesus to play with a Christian fundamentalist. There's horror in the eyes and a wet hot delirium, also.

"B-big sis, big sis-"

"You're so fucking _petulant_ , y'know, Ai- _tan_?"

"S-sorry, big sis. Big sis, I'm sorry-"

"No, you're not. Tell big sis the _truth_." A palm _crunching_ on her jaw. There's a groan and a gasp and it's more than just _wet_ now. Gushing out of her; spilling down down down and smeared on a thigh and _hers_ are probably wetter than standing in a stream.

"I'm so sorry, big sis-"

"Don't believe you for a _second_. Tell me the truth-"

"I'm not sorry! I'm not sorry! I love it so much!"

"Hurt you more, then?"

"Hurt me more. Hurt me more. Make me come; make me come even _harder_."

"Then start counting, little sis." A palm clapping down on her ass. Again and again and again and there's a rhythmic regular quality in it, perfect syncopation whose deepest worth is in being broken at the _cruelest_ instant. The sadism is hot and sodden and thick in your belly.

It's an incredible reeling _transcendental_ thing.

It's a spiritual experience, the pain rising up up up trilling from her lips until it becomes perfect supersaturated silence. A madness in quietude; in her fingers _rasping_ now at the tatami while toes tremble and legs thrash and there's the body's simple plea.

An _aversive_ thing. Let's be scholarly and pretentious.

It's every nerve simply convulsing with that basal atavistic knowledge that the _body's_ crude flesh is screaming for you to bug the fuck out and _leave_ all of this. But there's a deeper interpretation, as muddled and senseless and subjective as literary criticism.

This means what I _say_ it means.

For her, its meaning is lust.

Is perfection.

Is her pussy not only juicy but overripe and insane and delectable threads slopping down down down over the tatami, staining it with her.

Smearing herself through my sweat.

A _wail_.

Ears are tattooed with this.

Flesh is _adorned_ with her.

It is to know another in a dimension that they call _biblical_ ; it is all ridiculous, of course. Jamming yourself between another's thighs isn't knowledge. _This_ is wisdom. When the façades simply disintegrate like fine stained glass introduced to heavy artillery and the howls rear up candidly and there's a faint diffident little rap at the wall, and no one can aspire to care.

 _Um, would you please, ah, maybe keep it down in there?_

Duly noted.

 _Please. I'm trying to study!_

Oh, well.

Another sharp brutal _crack_.

"I- I can't take it anymore! Big sis, big sis, please, please, _please_!" And it is _purpling_ now; her flesh. Darkening more and more and more with every stroke.

"Oh-"

"I- I can't take it! I really can't take it!" And there's a glint of empathy. It's understood; it's _tasted_. When breath transmutes itself into electricity in your lungs, and there's only a serenade in one visceral animal thought.

 _Stopstopstopstopstop. No more! No more! Can't take it anymore!_

"Oh, I don't _knoooow_ -"

"P-p-p-please. Please. 's worse than getting shot!" And it's probably true. It's not one uninterrupted _swarm_ of bullets stitching through one _point_.

The hand is not merely tingling. Absolutely numb with it.

One. Last. Stroke. There is a sob; there is a terrible plangent convulsive _warble_ and it's the essence of a kitten being fed through a meat-grinder and I can't even fucking care 'cause the intensity soars to its fullest height at this instant. Always, always, always _this_.

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck." Soaring to a leap's apex; actually _surpassing_ its apogee with a sense of some inscrutable bit of altitude claimed in the soul's currents and then you're imploding and it's this implosion that's perfection.

Tasting gravity in your gut. HALO jumping with only a parasol.

 _Farewell_.

Needing it.

While she's sprawled out now on her belly; while fingers creep and stalk and skulk and there's something almost infantalizing in it, in this _being_. A wriggle gastropod thing; a beautiful woman is now a slug writhing across the tatami. Fingers clutch at an ankle; the eyes are enormous.

"G-goddammit, Ayumi, that last one-"

"You needed it."

"I _hate_ how much you know me." Lips quivering; the tongue's numbed, slack, falling from her jaws. "God, I hate how much you know me."

"I don't know-"

"I don't, either. 's so weird. I can't take it. You- you- how red is it?"

"Violet. Maybe _ultraviolet_ -"

"Damn. At least it's not bruised." It isn't a groan. And there's woe in this, something urgent and hot and palpable.

"You wanted it-"

"Well, I love it. Too bad doc gets _so_ weird about that." Lassitude; this is the word. But there are still fingers coiling out, a languid tentacle inquisition. Brushed along ankles; creeping seeping up up _up_. "I want some-"

"Oh, I don't _know_ , Ai- _tan_. You sure you can cope in your state-"

"Do _not_ deny me. You know how fast I recover from something like that." And it's true. And, well, if there'd been some misfortunate amnesia episode, how _exuberantly_ I'm reminded. A frenzied _springing_ bounce.

A pounce.

Not a flounce at all; palms driven into my shoulders and it's an awareness of the body distended into a coiling violence simply _liberated_ in an instant. There's definitely athleticism there. There's authentic brutality.

Shoulders _crumping_ down on the tatami.

"Hi, there, Ai- _tan_ -"

"It's my turn. I- I can't take it anymore. I'm so fucking _drenched_. You turned me into a wailing soppy _nothing_. How do you do that to me? Nobody else can. Not even Ran when she has her whip out-"

"'s 'cause you know I'm special." Peer up into her eyes. "C'mon, Ai- _tan_ -"

"Stop calling me that."

"Make me." We are all children. What demented little doggies we are. "C'mon, Ai- _tan_ -"

"Stop it. Stop it." But there's no _woe_ in it; only a plea that's a command that's a wish and a will for me. Because if it were being translated into _candid_ language, the only words that could be heard are, _God, god, don't you ever **stop** teasing me, or I'm gonna cry, my dahlink._

Or something like it.

Toes trembling.

"I'm going to _shut_ you up, Ayumi-"

"Oooh, I like that idea. C'mon, Ai- _tan_. Make me _quiet_ ; silence me-"

And there is silence. Hips bearing down and it's not the Goddess', in flesh or little more than gauzy velveteen phantasmagorical fantasy, well, what does it even matter? Because this is not the Goddess' skin; it still is.

She is bare.

 _I_ am bare.

There's no will to bother with the inconvenience in those taut thick curls surmounting lips as some weird quirking mustache, so we'll just all be little girls, and it's maybe a bit of surrogate lolicon psychosis, or maybe it's just comfort. Whatever.

"Eat it. Eat it. Eat it." Inflamed with a hunger you can't really capture in language, so why bother? I wonder if there's a better sign-language for it. Right. That would be your jaws twisting open and your tongue rising up up up a spearing soft pillar _impaling_ her. Her voice's tremor and it's her tits clutched in palms that can be _heard_ tearing into flesh.

Ah, ah, ah, ah.

We are crazed.

Both of us.

Fingers falling down away from her tits and it's not as if it's _invited_ , because this isn't the point. It's a perfection communion; it's nails plucking and twisting along my belly tasting the firm muscle, falling down down down.

"God, your body's fucking amazing, Ayumi. Where'd this body _come_ from, anyway?"

There's no answer. A _little_ occupied. Every murmur and whisper filters through this lavish celestial gloom in the thighs' union and the lips' faint nebulous geometry with eyes half-closed or maybe it's just half-open. Whichever. Tongue outstretched and flailing and wriggling and palms clapped on her ass and there's a tacit understanding.

Twisting and arching and there's now not only her pussy's sticky _fountaining_ effusion but something novel. A sweetness in this skin; in the taut sweat-dampened pucker, smeared with those succulent syrupy juices.

Tongue flitting and flickering and there can only be encouragement in force. In commands. Tearing plucking pulling it's an absolute polarized selfishness. There's not one _touch_ for anything but the tits that're objects of hunger, unqualified and supreme self-indulgence.

She is.

This is her essence. The narcissistic lover and there can be no complaints because every groan every quiver every heave every sigh every _gasp_ is delectation spilling down down down through the warmth opening up now and racing over the tongue and down down down.

Puddling in my belly and lunging out in huge coiling vacillating tendrils to the toe-tips.

Muttering senseless Arabesque poetry into her.

The vibrations rear up.

"Hah. Hah. I- I need it. I need it. I want to drink you, Ayumi." And so she will. Falling, falling, falling. Falling and tumbling down and it's the planet's most underfed sequoia felled with a chainsaw; it's her palms and her hands now and it's a half-sit up for me and it's the tongue wheeling and flitting and thrashing and suddenly, suddenly, the world doesn't only melt but dissolves and hardens again in strange ragged feathery convolution only to be _split_ with a thunderbolt racing down from the heavens.

It's madness.

Cracking.

Everything; the world's very dimensions. They're fissuring and breaking into _nothing_ ; her tongue and mouth and lips and her heat and her _fingers_. Assailed with a merciless frenzy; three digits gathered together and just daggering pummeling pounding and it's not some dewy manga-perfect bit of sentimentalism from some chick weepy over her _we-almost-kissed_ high school moment but the simple truth.

Shivering; heels grate at the tatami.

She's _mauling_ me.

I am the prey, and she is the tigress, and I am now not only meat and hunger but overripe fruit because I am _bloated_ with desire and clamoring and her mouth is there and it's _fucking incredible_. It beggars belief, this- this _exultation_. Rejoicing in the juices. A peach's cannibalism; not a shaken pear-tree being fertilized with _whatever_ but her tongue, her tongue, oh, _goddess_ , her tongue, this sumptuous thing.

Flitting and flickering and fingers peel open lips and the tongue dives and dives and dives tears out huge luscious gouts from that dark place and surfaces and it's an endlessly rejuvenated well bored into an ocean tucked into the earth.

It is hunger.

Striping up and down and up and down again and again and again and it's to know her body and mine in their convergence and it's to be planted on an anvil and the hammer's crashing crunching down down down down down.

"Keep eating me, Ayumi!"

And what can you do but simply obey?

Wrench yourself up up up and the tongue is its own mistress, flickering and jabbing and grinding over what, hell, there's really _no_ perfect artful euphemism for a woman's clitoris. It's a fine and rarefied pearl; that's the _only_ imagery for it.

Love it love it love it.

Bind the tongue's very very _peak_ into that hood and saw back and forth back and forth while your chin's being ground into the lips' cleft and I want want want want want need more more more more more.

"Ayumi, Ayumi!" Even the faintest murmur is an explosion through the body; those _screams_ thrash up and down like an oscilloscope capturing a nuclear blast. Every pitch and convolution in its own unique dip and rise but more than anything it's just a simple _height_.

Endless full-throated.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

"Ayumi!" I want it; need it. Fingers pour through her. "T-touch my ass. Touch my ass." Naughty, naughty, naughty.

Juicy with her; slathered with sweat, with spittle. And now, now, such _ease_ for your fingers. Tucking deeper and deeper, two at once, splaying her open, and there's no resistance at all.

"Looks like _someone's_ been doin' impure things with the doc-"

"Y-yeah, yeah. Oh, god, yeah. He really wanted it. I'm kind of happy he did. I- I... Ah..." Twisting through her; wriggling and coiling and it's almost _supernatural_ , the ease with which your fingers sink down to the second knuckle.

Slithering into a heat that's oh so faintly greasy with unplaceable sensations, and simply divine. Another hand's fingers greeting them through a sheath slick strange elastic; more a _suggestion_ , an _inkling_ , of flesh than anything truly tangible. A sense that you should simply pour through those boundaries.

Touch her; touch her; touch her.

Pump and plunge and the tongue has now joined in the carnal multitasking and the mind is elsewhere while the body simply gorges itself without restraint without compunction without anything but lust, lust, lust.

Slathering slavering slapping kissing stroking; wet hot _squelch_ in lips fastened around her.

And _she_ is there, also, a delirious sumptuous symmetry.

Heaving with it.

"Ah, ah, ah, p-put your fingers in me, Ai! Ai! A-as many as you can." A plea for her fist; for the hand's fine slim proportions.

The knuckles' soft satin grace.

But only four at once, and so fucking _shallowly_.

Grinding at her knuckles.

Fingers forced together, more more more. Wail and warble and there's a moment in perfect coordination. I am.

She is.

A mutual madness.

Fingers lapped and thighs twisted together and it is a kiss in duality; in her lips and my lips and mine and hers and there are lips _everywhere_ for a moment.

And there's silence. Sticky and slathered on the ears; a clock's sharp quick _rap-rap-rap_ announces time's passage, because nothing else can while the heart dies.

"Whoa." Strange throttling quietude. Cradling her; limbs tangled with promiscuous grace. Hair heavy and raveled around her. "Whoa. Whoa, Ayumi, that was..."

"Mmm... Fantabulous." Dragging one of her fine fingers between my lips; there is a kiss that becomes something like surrogate fellatio with the soft lavish skin.

"I just thought I'd..." The words melt with her eyes into a wet crazed delirium. "Shit, I just thought I'd ask you about the new chems I made-"

"Oh, they're _fantastic_."

"Not fantabulous-"

"Who knows? Mmm. Entheogen or aphrodisiac, _who cares_. I guess doc was _veeery_ excited yesterday."

"Uh-huh. He kept it up for six rounds."

"I'm amazed you can stand-"

"Maybe I'm not as slutty as _you_ , but I'm a pretty good competitor." We will kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Taste and savor the gradations in flavor spilling from mouth to mouth. "He's still so _weird_ about wearing when he fucks my ass."

"So, you do it that often, Haibara?"

"I love my ass. I really do."

"I wish I had a toy. I'm so _shy_ about buying that sort of thing." And we will both gorge ourselves on _this_ bit of play-pretend modesty.

"Yeah, sure. You're just too cheap, right?"

"Nah. Too forgetful. I'm sure I'd just leave it around the apartment. Either that, or carry it with me _eeeevery day_. I think I'd be very popular. Where's Conan- _kun_?"

"That was... A weird little non sequitur." Mmm. I'm sure it is.

It's an ordeal to disentangle yourself; to unlace the limbs and fingers and hair and it's a moment that you'd never see in the passionate trite romantic films.

Well, never two beautiful women.

But _this_ , also.

The winces.

 _Dammit, can't you just- just be careful?! Wah!_

Dragging the joints from the counter. Sparking one with a slow lingering relish and it's definitely more gratifying than a beer.

"You got any Sapporo, Ayumi?" While she's not only lounging but _draped_ over the tousled futon with a lassitude that's melted her hair into a lank auburn puddle around her nape.

"Mmm? Yes. I'm sure I do. You wanted a beer?"

"God, I do. I _love_ beer after fucking on a hot day like this. Just like after cleaning the house-"

"Let. Me. Guess. You clean the house with doc; you steep yourselves in sweat; and then you ruin everything again."

"Pretty much. You know, he said you're invited to stay over. Any time you'd like-"

"I am _not_ playing that game with you two. I'd feel a little weird, honestly. I mean, he _has_ known me since I was a little girl. It's not like _you_ ; you were at least an adult. In a little girl's body. But, hell, what's the difference?

"The mind is all, right?" Swallowing half the joint in one prolonged dreamy gasp; it's cream smeared on your every nerve. Fingers grope lazily at the fridge; jerk it open with the bottles' sharp chinking rattle together.

One's plucked out, rinsed beneath the tap, snapped open. Serenade yourself with its carbonation's heavy prickling wheeze. The aroma's pungent, acrid, a gasp tossed down before it's tucked into Haibara's hand.

The condensation becomes a luxuriant smear knitted like needlepoint through the perspiration, rolled with her palm's slow lingering stroke over her brow, her breasts.

It's that unselfconscious grace in a woman's poise when there's _not_ a camera; when there's only exhaustion without anything like unease. Legs outstretched and her belly tight but still _soft_ with femininity; tits fall heavy with elegantly upturned tear-drop elegance.

"Ah. That tastes _so_ good." Swallowing a quick spurt of the beer. "Damn, it's _amazing_. I love Sapporo. Even if Japan didn't have _anything_ else, I think I'd love it for the beer. That _clarity_. It's nothing like the pisswater Americans brew.

"Or the grimy crap the Germans and English and Irish have."

"I don't mind American beer. It's all carbonated piss and ash-"

"But the Japanese is- is just _clearer_ , I guess. It's the piss of the gods." Chortling into the bottle; there's a susurration, a rumble and thrum with the breath's quick musical flit through the mouth. "Whew. What time is it?"

"Eight-forty-"

"Ah, _crap_. Doc will be _very_ upset."

"What can he do? Spank you-"

"You should play around with us sometimes. Trust me, it's _**very**_ worth it. He's in better shape than he's ever been, I think. He's got muscle under all of that roundness, you know. He can bounce me for _hours_." Ew.

Yuck.

But there's a- a _starry-eyed_ idiocy in it.

Damn.

"Really? That fantastic? Is this _looooove_?"

"I wouldn't say that. But it's a lot of _like_."

"Poor Mitsuhiko- _kun_. He'll be so disappointed." Opening my own beer. Why not? When entertaining in Rome, ah...

"Oh, _please_. You know that was just a _little_ thing-"

"Yeah, right. That _infatuation_."

"Wasn't he always snuffling around _your_ skirt, too, Ayumi?" Fair enough. Haibara's right brow quirked; standing now, the beer tossed back.

"And Ran's. And Sonoko's. And Kisaki- _san_ 's and-"

"Well, he _is_ a boy." And there is a sigh.

It is a knowing one.

A long-suffering one.

Oh, _boys_.

"I need to motor, Ayumi. I will see _you_ later."

"Any more of those _delicious_ chemistries?"

"Yeah. I have a few blotters. You're sure-"

"I'd buy a _gross_. Trust me, Haibara, that's fucking _incredible_. I've never been higher; I've never been more _delirious_."

"A gross? You're serious?" There's incredulity.

"Why? It's not like it's that rarefied, right? No ergot or whatever's crashing the acid market-"

"No. No. All of it's pretty much over-the-counter. Well, y'know, the professional _lab_ counter. Nothing really controlled."

"Gotta have it, Ai. It's driving me _insane_. I'm already a junkie for it, I think." There's a hysteria in this. A fanaticism coalescing in the blood. Madness. Hunger; craving.

"Seriously? I mean, _addiction_ -"

"Nah. I just want it again. I saw a _goddess_."

"So you _said_. I've never made an entheogen before. I'm kind of excited."

" _Just so exciiiited_ -"

"Anyway, I need to leave-"

"Geeze. Like that? Not even bathing with your beloved Ayumi?"

"He _loves_ the smell of other girls on me."

"Boys?"

"Not so much. It's not fair, either, 'cause I _love_ women on _him_." Dressing. Quickly, quickly; not _hurried_ but only with a deft mechanical ease.

The planet's most workmanlike unstriptease. Dresstease? Whatever it is, it's anguish, even if she _is_ very lovely clothed, also.

But _I_ must bathe.

Slowly, slowly, the shower rasping at shoulders, caressing the nape, shampoo lathered in the hair. There's a beautiful lassitude, at least, in bathing alone. No complaints about the temperature; no whining about the time that _you're_ monopolizing anything.

Just sag down into the bath drawn in its sumptuous depth.

 _This_ is what redeems the shitty claustrophobic apartment. I will be a realist about this; it _is_ an absolutely awful apartment.

I don't care.

A likeness of silence.

Tranquility.

Top-heavy lonely newly-divorced neighbor.

It's just...

Paradisaical.

Slipping down down down; knowing the sublime half-drowning relief the luxury in the water sloshing up around your ears.

But there's always an interruption, isn't there? Springing up out of the bath with a heave and a gurgle the instant _that_ chime throbs up from the phone. It's quick, lunging, bounding, bouncing, and there's still _forever_ that simple agitation because it could end at any instant.

"Hello? Yoshida." Now, now, now, _who_ could it be?


	2. Gimme Shelter

Laugh and laugh and laugh. That's really the only bit of worth in life, isn't it? Laugh and laugh and laugh. There should be Gloria Gaynor on the stereo, and not only some shitty J-pop, but, hell, it's the world, ain't it? Why not just coax your own soundtrack into being. It's an act of alchemy, you understand. It's all sorcery. Imagine it, if you will.

We're _here_. Squatting on an island; the descendants of the Gods, and we are transfixed with our own navel-gazing computerized fantasies in voice. We are shackled, as humans, as these sainted aggrandized primates, to the castrato's squealing and the lolicon idol's toneless squalling and we will speak absolutely _nothing_ of this. But there's always a luxury in the words all-you-can-eat. Maybe all-you-can-drink. It's better-living-through-chemistry; perfection. The family restaurant.

There are no families here. Thank _goddess_ , there're no families. Just the usual waitresses in their enchanting long-legged prowl. The bored eyes; more than bored. Slipping down down down into abysmal places, somnambulating places, a bleary apathy to _eeeeverything_. It's an enviable life. What _is_ this ideal that we cradle to our breasts? Boredom, I mean. Why invest so damn much time in being _bored_?

It's obedience; that's what it is. The simple conviction to sleepwalk through life with a shrugging indifference to everything but the immediacy. It's not even a failure to see the future but an unwillingness to understand the past. It's imagination cast off. It's our very essence _denied_. Abstract thought, you see. It's what distinguishes you from, oh, a lobster. The opposable digits? Pretty trivial.

But let's feast on our shitty J-pop.

"Ah, can I help you?" They _are_ very pretty, aren't they? Something archetypal so the cantankerous nationalists won't twist it into a high-dudgeon shit-show. How _high_ can anyone's dudgeon be, incidentally? Is there a gauge? A scale?

"Mmm. I am _fantastic_. What about you? Hey, why doncha sit with me for a bit? There's a free seat." Because there's just _sitting_ 'til you're not sitting any longer. The woman is _very_ pretty. Woman; girl; whatever. Definitely _legal_.

Ah! These conveniently circumscribed bits of morality. What's the meaning? Whimsical, fantastical. Eighteen or nineteen or thirty and what does it even matter when the mind's still just wallowing in infantalism? Not her.

I think. All right, don't hold me to any of this.

But the legs are very very lean and slim and maybe there's not quite the firm muscle and fleshly grace that could define a porno manga fantasy, but they're definitely the breed to be flung around your waist when the bodies converge _crash_ together in sweat and hunger and the belly is lean and the arms are very fine. The fingers, also.

Lililicious fingers. Lizzie fingers. Ooh, ooh, _ooh_. A new lingual obsession, you know. Lizzie. I am _overtaken_ with Lizzie lusts; Lizzie cravings. There is a lingering _stare_. It's obvious, of course, the reason for this. It's not _indecent_. Exactly. Ah!

But that's the simple bliss. 'cause society's sensibilities are just so exactingly legalistic. It's the reason _tits_ are fine, but not the nipples. Those, of course, would irreparably _desecrate_ the poor impressionable kiddies' minds. Or something. Morphine is wholesome, is an ideal to palliate pain and diminish our despair and _uplift_ us in our miserable wallows in places stagnant and steeping in disinfectant. But lavish your veins with a bit _without_ a doctor's imprimatur, and your sin must be punished.

Add a few atoms to it and call it _heroin_ , and your throat can taste the noose's elegant adornment. A very fine necktie. But, well, we must not upset the children, you see. When your eyes are _inflamed_ with shabu; when there's a prickling hunger soaring up up up like a bonfire's satiny embers flitting away and you can trace their passage out beyond horizons stained in sepia.

There is the sunset, and it's a beautiful thing, sloshing along the streets still thick with traffic. With ostentatious _busyness_. That's its essence. An unwillingness to live. And you will defer life and defer life 'til you're slipping off to a cool and tranquil forest at Fuji-san's foot with a bit of rope and not even a little heroin.

So why not just _laugh_?

"Ah? Um?" Ah. I think she's broken. Or something. The hair thick and shimmering in its lacquered anthracite bob around a fine chin. The lips are very lovely. They would be delicious to kiss; the eyes, also, when the heavy lashes like obsidian quills settle slowly around them, when they will dip down over the soft tawny cheeks.

She is _very_ pretty. The breasts are large; she has no ass, no hips, and the legs are so _slender_. Mmm. It's a gaudy fucking costume. Ruffled pallid apron and it's not even a _maid_ _café_. But goddess forbid our nation's degenerates reprobates and morons be denied their familiarity.

"Isn't that a little degrading? Wearing a costume like that? Seriously, do you _want_ to wear that?" Glancing down.

Stockings gauzy and dark and creasing the thighs with only the _tiniest_ inkling of that delicious dimple into the sleek soft skin that craves the fingers' raking stroke.

Kitten-heeled Mary Janes.

It is a kinderwhore allure; there is no equivocation about it. She is _very_ , very lovely. Comely. This delicious anachronism in language. But the _smile_ is not lovely at all. It's rictus; it's a rigor mortis smile. It's not a smile at all!

Why, it's a lie. A perfect and outrageous lie.

"Ah, excuse me?" Her brows very very still; it's strange, knowing this tension shuddering through them. The unease with a bit of candor.

"Well, I just wondered. I mean, _I_ love my clothes. You've been investing at least _half_ your attention in my chest. Which is what I'd wanted. Even if you could stare a little lower, too, y'know." Because it is all very charming.

Creamy taut fabric _cinched_ at nipple-height like the planet's most dazzlingly indecent choker; flesh in its effusion flaring up plump and quavering and forever about one dramatic bounce away from an explosion like a marshmallow Pinatubo. Midriff-baring; this is the polite phrase for less fabric than a bikini somehow parceled out across your chest.

And a skirt that's more an act of pretension. A belt. A very very _jovial_ one wrought from those chemical sublimities named spandex and lycra and whatever else in black. Heels that could spit-roast a suckling pig; groaning shimmering patent leather.

I am very happy.

And the broad satchel flung over my left shoulder.

"A- ah, I'm not-"

"Oh, yes, you are. I'm very happy. Would you care for some nipple, darling?" Manic and wild and fingers are laced into the top. A little _tug_ , and there they are. "Oh, both of them-"

"W-whoa. They're _huge_. Are they real?" Craning down. It's intimacy now, you see. Everything like decorum's pretension cast off.

"Oh, yeah. Are yours?"

"I- I can't afford implants."

"Mmm. Who'd want them, anyway? I mean, sure, they're _nice_. In clothing, anyway. Mmm. I _do_ like that costume. It's for the clients, right? Wouldn't you rather just be in a nice pair of jeans and a tee-shirt?"

"Well, yeah." And the voice is much deeper, also, isn't it? Not only that chirruping preadolescent coo. It's much much lovelier. "I- I would. But, y'know, a job is a job-"

"Ah, ah, ah. I have a job, also. You know, I think I might want to kiss you. Wouldja mind-"

"Ah! Not- not during work hours-"

"Oh, but we're so _close_ now." Preen, mince a little. It's quite the feat, flouncing while _totally_ still in the seat. "Not fair. Not fair. You're _so_ damn pretty-"

"Now, now, now. Trying to make me jealous?" Ah! There is rejoicing.

The peasants will bellow and bleat with bliss!

She is here!

Our Lady of Blue-Balls.

"Not jealous. Just fomenting a bit of proletarian rebellion. Accentuating to our lovely waitress that she _needn't_ always suffer the indignity in wriggling her tiny but very charming ass around in this stupid costume; that she _has_ choices.

"Not always the best ones. Why not just a little kissy?" There is enchantment, you understand. Enticement set in the key of G and there is a smile; is a finger brushed not on her skin but only along the table and it is answered with another. Hers; bare skin against skin and there is electricity.

"Well, maybe just a _little_ one." How indulgent our Waitress- _san_ is.

There are not obtrusive stares; it is a dolorous place in weary students dazed with academic cataplexy and there are only gawping empty eyes, an exercise in a very apposite incredulity. But they still Believe. You can _taste_ it. This Belief.

This religious faith.

And it's in what can only be a lie. In a compartmentalized pocket orthodoxy while the world wheels and throbs and _implodes_ into entropy. This is the most perfect entropy; a great and glorious and even a tiny one. A bit of that sainted order melts down when fingers lace together; when lips pour into lips and there's a gasp.

A shiver and there's some elderly lady in mid-swoon now, a palm clamped on her breast curtained in floral-print, and it ain't with disapproval.

Lovely to uplift your evening, Madame.

The waitress' lips are lavish, soft, a pert plumpness shimmering with a faint glossy lacquer and it's inexpressible perfection to graze the cheeks, to adore the face, the makeup in its heavy layered bits of aesthetic obligation.

And she will brush away this kiss; the dazed lush spittle that still distends between your tongues. Just the tiniest, well, kiss... Of a kiss. While the pupils bloat like twinned black holes gorging themselves on crude oil.

While warmth slithers through her cheeks.

"Anything, Ran- _chan_?" A glance up at the night's beauty. The simple untroubled elegance in her poise. In the vast luscious hair like a falcon's wings plucked of their feathers, and these feathers transmuted with some sensual alchemy into silk slashed down into pin-straight grace. Auburn; not black like her parents'. Something more than a little weird.

Maybe it _wasn't_ only Kogorou with a zeal for the extramarital.

"Ah, I'm fine. Well, why not a cappuccino?"

"Uh, Miss Customer," how _formal_ we are, while the waitress' knees scribe a shudder and quiver and _rattle_ together curtained in their lucent stockings, "Ah, we have a beverage bar."

"Sweet. I'll have that, then." Ran slipping into the booth. Beside me. Even a little pointedly.

Wreathed in her perfume; in the soft nostril-dappling confluences in sweat and femininity and other ineffable aromas. In fragrances that man has wrought but only _she_ has domesticated. Wafting through the hair and nesting in the senses. A sensuality.

She is _beautiful_.

Damn damn damn damn _damn_ , goddess.

"So, ah... I..." Waitress- _san_ is still so _expectant_.

"C'mon, Ran- _saaaaama_. Why doncha have something a little more, y'know, _anything_ -"

"I'm watching my weight." A palm on her belly.

"Oh, yeah. You're really _bloating_ up, honey. What? Cresting seventy kilos now-"

"Shut up."

"She'll have a parfait. Double ice cream-"

"Get it _yourself_ , then, Ayumi. Goddamn-"

"Fine, fine. She'll have _two_ double ice cream parfaits. Oh! Oh! With whipped cream. Why not a little chocolate ganache? On her bill, naturally-"

"Don't make me _hurt_ you, Ayumi." It's low, deep, husky. Entrancing.

"She means, _That would be perfect_ , Waitress- _san_." And there's only a bit of giggling, soft and drunk through the chick's _very_ soft and intoxicating lips.

"What the _hell_ , Ayumi-"

"Oh, c'mon, Ran- _saaama_. It's not like you're exactly _wanting_ for cash now. Or you ever were. Your mom _is_ Kisaki Eri; your dad, ah, well, he certainly is _popular_ -"

"Don't fucking talk about my parents." Ah. And there we are. It _is_ Tuesday, isn't it? It's more than a scowl. It's a likeness of some apocalyptic hurricane _settling_ over the face; it's the lips bowing like flattening palms; it's the eyes churning with ravaged neighborhoods' tormented denizens, vowing wrath and animus against god and man.

It's a _snarl_.

"Well, Ran- _sama_ -"

"And don't call me that. It pisses me off out of work. You know, Ayumi, I _really_ don't know why I meet you sometimes-"

"Sure, ya do. You asked to meet _moi_." Laughter. It's subdued and mischievous and frolicking from the lips. "Anyway, I had the most _faaantastic_ fucking trip. I'm serious."

"Hawaii?" Haw haw haw.

"I'm serious. Really."

"Okinawa?" And now there's that jovial glint in her eyes. That strange _unreal_ indigo .

"Mmm. I'm talking about _inner-space_ , honey. I'm talking about the most delectable empathy with _myself_ ; intimacy with myself."

"Are you boasting about stroking it?"

"Nah. I _was_ stroking it. Lonely and all that. And then a _goddess_ visited me."

"A goddess?" While shoulders whisper together; while her fingers are quick and flitting and absolutely untroubled in their hunger. While they creep and stalk and skulk and there is passage up and down but there's only _one_ real destination.

Laced between your thighs; in an instant, they're there.

"Whoa-"

"You know what I want, right, Ayumi? I was kind of hoping you'd wear your stockings. Those- those _fantastic_ stockings and high high _high_ heels-"

"Since when?"

"I love it. Too bad you didn't bring that suit I bought for you, either-"

"Mama's girl."

"You know it." Craning closer, and closer. There's an awareness of _softness_ that isn't fat; isn't degeneration so much as a lavisher fleshliness. Less exercise model and more AV model and still with a heavy wiry strength suffusing every _inch_. Delicious. Her fingers are nimble, lacquered in carmine, and theirs is a quick untroubled ease.

Brazen.

Such as there's anything like brazenness in a world wrought around the phrase _urban apathy_. A gangbang could coalesce in an adjoining booth and the only repercussion would be a whisper that maybe, _maybe_ , they not spatter jizz across your omurice.

A wet slow squelch.

"Whoa, you're _drenched_ , Ayumi- _chan_." Yes, yes, yes.

"God, your nails're too fucking long, Ran- _saaama_ -"

"Stop it." Prickling with an urgent menace at my left thigh; a quick spearing _jab_. "I'm serious; call me that, and I'll rip up your hole-"

"Isn't _someone_ finding a little difficulty with her work-life balance?" What a delicious cliché it is. "Not caring for law school too well?"

"I fucking _hate it_. Especially since my sleaze-bag professor found out about my little pastime."

"Oh, _too_ bad. So, ah, why not just _ice_ him?"

"'cause no one'll give me permission for that." Could anyone care here? Crane and twist and now, now, it's only lips and mouths. She's more than beautiful. A moment to just _admire_ ; to gawp with awe at the soft skin and curvaceous hips and heavy heavy breasts and trim belly cradled with a tight black tee-shirt and a knee-length skirt that's a delectable pretension to decency.

Legs shimmering with stockings flecked in strange metallic stripes that capture the sun with twinkling effulgences.

Oh, oh, oh.

Thick-heeled sandals; fine leather thongs wound around graceful arching ankles.

Up and down and up and down.

"God, you love my legs, huh, Ayumi?" Gloating. Why shouldn't she?

"I love _every_ woman's legs. Well, if they have beautiful legs-"

"Touch them. Touch them. Touch them." And there's no resistance now. No opposition. Nothing but _this_. Clasp a palm on her knee and there's madness; slip up and down and around and _cradle_ one of the thighs and know the pert roundness and the shapeliness in the calves.

Her fingers drag a _spatter_ from between my legs.

"A-ah, hah-"

"Don't moan, Ayumi."

"Y-yeah, _right_." Half-doubled-over; spine overwatered gelatin. Losing everything you could even _aspire_ to call sanity. Leaking from the ears. Mind and thought and everything but the visceral is simply vanishing. Shuddering. "God, you're fucking insane, Ran. Even- even _crazier_ than I am-"

"You're _high_ , aren't you?"

"I'm speeding; hell, yeah. Shabu. Goddess, you've had it, right?"

"I don't need anything to make me _high_ , Ayumi."

"Who does? I _like_ it; double-high. Double-fine. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Jaw clenched; you could grind rice into mochiko between my fucking molars. Her fingers are _lovelier_ than lovely; delicious, soft, sweet, stirring with delirious elegance and there's a glance down and they're scribing a lust-curtained stroke in out in out in out in out.

Yes.

Perfectly poised. There's no inexperience with this.

"Y-your nails aren't a Lizzie's, y'know-"

"I see you've been talking to Haibara. She's getting in touch with her _American_ side. I'm worried she's gonna start talking like a rapper or something soon." Another long slow wet _spurt_.

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck, Ran-"

"Are you gonna come soon?"

"I think so." So, of course, being the good dominatrix she is... "I- I can't fucking believe how _wicked_ you are, Ran."

"I want my candy." Ah.

"Ran, c'mon, I- it's not like it's a transaction-"

"I feel like doing it _that_ way tonight. I just feel so fucking _horny_ looking at you that I don't think I'll have any self-respect unless I bully you. Those tits." A hand just _clamped_ on them now; on their confluence.

Burying fingers into plump marshmallow.

"What's this about self-respect no-waaaaa!" A twist.

A tug.

Nipples just fished out of the top's taut straining fabric and _bared_ , exposed, ah, ah, ah, tangled between her fingers and gathered together and now not only kneaded but _ground_ beneath her thumb and fingers and it's more than a twist.

More than a pull.

It's a _yank_.

"G-goddess, Ran-"

"I wanna do it. I wanna do it rough with you. I don't know _why_. It's just- it _hit_ me. The second I walked in, watching you flirt with that cute waitress. I needed it; I wanna fuck you in the bathroom-"

"Oooh, really? You know, you're still gonna hafta pay me for iiiiit." A squeeze; another. It's to be petted now.

Stroked.

Caressed.

"G-goddess-"

"Why do I need to _pay_?"

"Hey, hey, hey, _I'm_ not the dominatrix here-"

"A dominatrix isn't a hooker, you loopy slut." A sharp _crack_ on a cheek. This could _possibly_ command a little attention if this weren't a culture that shrugs at octogenarians being raped on the subway.

Tongue lolling out now; a gasp and shudder and shiver and that would be _another_ slap. Yes. Yes. Algolagnia's inexpressible perfection.

Haibara is a submissive with me.

I am Ran's subservient. It can only be this. This is her expertise; this is her professional elegance. A finesse. An acumen in the body and its simple will to submit. To genuflect.

Another slap and another and another and waitress-san's fingers are simply cinched around the tray; a strange and unreal sense of levitation while the spine heaves and arches and even the dull-eyed high school brats and the ronin can only _gawp_.

There are no cameras; this would break the thrall. This _sorcery_. The parfaits're being eased with a faint chinking little rattle onto the table. Waitress- _san_ 's voice is an ambition to one of those perfunctory rote phrases and what the fuck does anything matter when that supersaturated heroin _bliss_ is being ground into every nerve and it's hammering down every fucking vein in joy bang enormity.

A quiet little keen from the lips.

Palms on my knees; dare not touch _anything_.

Stone becomes dust in her hands; this is something achingly gentle.

"A-ah, Customer- _sama_ -"

"Quiet, you. You're going to help us right now, Waitress- _san._ " Ran is a native tyrant; it is her essence. Her spirit animated with this wicked wisdom.

"M-my name is Miyuki." A tray's broad tawny disc is being planted against her belly. A prim and demure spectacle, dimpling the heavy soft tits flaring up through the taut black tunic swept in ruffled creamy lace. "Ah, I- I don't understand-"

"Yes, you do. Are you a cherry?"

"Wah-"

"Are you a virgin? Have you ever _fucked_? Answer me." Goddess, Ran's brutal, ain't she? Glancing up at Miyuki.

"U-uh-uh-uh-"

"If you _are_ a cherry, get lost, and find me someone who _isn't_ -"

"I'm not. I- I'm really, really not a virgin. Not at all. I love sex. I love it." Damn, this chick's about a half-second from something not only animal but _supernatural_. Mantling onto the table and falling to palms and knees and throwing back her head and baying at a moon that'll obligingly coax itself into being at about ceiling height. "I love it-"

"Good. Take off that goofy costume and wear this." It's just so damn _absolute_. This command.

 _Yessir!_

 _Yes, mistress!_

Ain't that the word?

Mistress.

"And, _you_ , Ayumi, I might not be paying with my body for my candy, but I'm sure as hell taking a little _tip_ out of yours." Oh, yes, yes, yes. "Just _looking_ at that slutty body and that pretty face is driving me totally fucking daffy. So get up on the table-"

"Yessir-"

"Yes, _Mistress Orchid_. That's what you're going to say."

"Yes, Mistress Orchid." There is only obedience. Slipping up on the table and there're still the parfaits there. Wasted. "But there're still the parfaits. And there're starving children, uh... Here? I got nothin'." Just a finger brushed through the parfait; thick with ice cream, satiny and delectable. Smeared on my tongue. "C'mon, c'mon, let me have _some_ , Mistress Orchid."

"What a _bratty_ little slut you are-"

"As _ordered_ , Mistress Orchid. You _looo-hooove_ brats-"

"I love putting my hands on them, anyway." How dreamy this is. And the delectable Miyuki- _chan_ is definitely enthusiastic. The apron shed; and now the ridiculous tunic. _This_ is not a striptease. "And if _any_ of you little fucks has their phone or camera out, I will _demonstrate_ exactly why I'm still Tokyo Prefecture's most distinguished Karate-ka. Got it?"

 _Yeeeees._

Yes, class.

Yes.

"Everyone should be _perfectly_ welcome to dig in and have some autoerotic fun, though. Really. I mean, c'mon, even if _I'm_ not supposed to waste my vital Taoist essence on petting the kitty, y'all can." Urge them; admonish them. It's my right.

How lovely they are.

The waitresses agape.

Agog.

Agawp.

Yes, yes, yes, yes. And there's the veneration in being tyrannized; in _Mistress Orchid_ 's fingers laced through my hair in its immensity. Stroking, tugging, and there's simply _her_ sublime expertise; a cable slipped from the huge thick leather satchel slung around a shoulder, and the tendrils in their obsidian multitude are being gathered together, deft confident twists and convolutions in the fine long fingers easing them into a pressure knot.

Frenzied; nibbling at the ice cream parfait with boisterous animal zeal, fingers jabbed into the dish, graceful angular crystalline vessel, shoveling heaps of cream and fruit into your mouth. Hunger; hunger; gnash and gnaw and swallow down more and more and more.

Admire the striptease that isn't with the destination that still could only be _this_. The long long legs stilted in the adorable Mary Janes and there is now a black-and-tan calico universe; her faintly dusky skin and the _very_ black fabric.

Even an inkling of garters; well-trimmed pubic hair surmounting a pussy whose thick luscious lips have just begun to _melt_ apart, dark and sticky and shimmering and there's the tiniest _inkling_ of that perfection in color that's exactly that.

Pussy-pink; plunging down down down in its gradations, concentricities that plead for their companion in a magenta tongue smeared down down down to taste every fucking inch every depth and I am awed.

I am wreathed in transcendence.

"It's not _fair_ that all those spare calories just settle in those huge tits, Ayumi." Ran, Ran, Ran, oh, Mistress Orchid, what resentment.

The body still well-exercised; the insecurity, it can really only be play-pretend.

Skin-deep.

Just the tiniest _kiss_ of fat; not baby-fat and not the adult breed but just _exactly_ what's coveted for a woman that's not rippling with muscle. A sleek cohesive skein draped over every inch; abs still intuited with a long sinuous vulpine stretch when the carnal has melted into the post-coital and she's straining upright with a few bleary blinks in the coalescing sticky morning or afternoon or evening. Whatever.

She's incredible. And Miyuki- _tan_ 's tits could definitely fuel more than a little fanaticism. But the ass is just _so_ fucking tiny. How is that possible? What god, what goddess, could preside over such belief-beggaringly _cruel_ asymmetry?

Oh, well.

"Here. This is for _you_ , Miyuki- _chan_." Dragged from the satchel and there are only eyes.

A great chorus of silent awe.

Whoa, whoa, _whoa_.

"Whoa-ho- _ho_. That's fucking _huge_ , Mistress Orchid. C'mon. Are you _punishing_ me for being this pretty-"

"Punishing you for being you." How glib she is. But it's a reasonable likeness of a thick fuchsia banana; graceful long thick sleek slick in its curvaceous convolutions. Not double-headed; a polarized sexual psychosis. "Here's a harness for you, Miyuki- _chan_. Now, now, Ayumi."

A finger waggled at me.

"You will call her _Mistress_ Miyuki, also-"

"Sweet." One parfait finished; and the second's being snatched away. Just _tossed_ at the audience.

No tinkling serenade in glass melting into wreckage, so, well, that's _something_.

At someone's expense.

Or maybe a concussion. Whatever. Silent and reverential awe amongst the peanut gallery. Two of the girls have simply melted into their boyfriends' embraces; and the boyfriends' attention is cruelly carved between the cute high school chicks and _this_ , and theirs also.

Contributing to the delinquency of a minor. Or something.

"I want you to do a little striptease for the audience, now, Ayumi."

"Oh, yeah, that'll be all of a second. Why not?" Something languorous, girlish. Standing, standing, on the high high heels.

Poised on the table. Towering over the throng. It's the hips' slow sinuous twist and writhe and why not wring what you _can_ from it, at least? Tug up up up the taut tight ridiculously _elastic_ top cinching clutching cradling and _snap_ it away.

The skirt's victim of a bit of undulation and it's already gone. How cruel; how woeful.

What sorrow.

No panties, of course. Why bother with _that_? And the bra? That's my woe and my surgeon's in a few decades.

 _Whoa._

 _Do you think they're natural?_

 _Dude, **what do you think?** Those're seriously natural; plastic-fantastic titties don't **fall** like that._

 _Yeah, he's the expert. Total virgin turbo-nerd. He's never seen a pair outta AV._

 _How do ya think I know, dude?_

 _Oh, oh, oh, Saki-neechan, let's... Do you wanna wait, or go back to my place?_

 _My parents are still home. I- can I lick you?_

 _Only if I get to lick you, Saki-neechan._

Yes, yes, _yes_.

Delirious.

"Oh, this's _incredible_. We've all gone absolutely fucking _crazy_ , haven't we?" Mistress Orchid a figure of perfection. The tyrant whose madness is so supreme so _concentrated_ that she could only rule and reign over the madhouse.

Sumptuous.

Diablerie in heels; fingers laced under the tee-shirt, and it's a quick tug and a jerk and _she_ is simply seduction incarnate. She is become the sensual, the sexual. Skirt eased away and there's nakedness, also, but for her panties, a bra that's probably more architectural. Flesh _fountains_ up. And the panties simply vanish.

The bra is memory.

Silver-dollar areolae and thick plump nipples in tawny silk against creamy tits.

They're delirious.

Delicious.

And she will conquer; she will conquer without stooping.

'cause that's my right.

"Now, now, _now_ , Ayumi, I want _you_ on your belly. On the table. It's clean enough. I'm sure."

"W-we keep our restaurant spotless, Mistress Orchid- _sama_." How ebullient Waitress- _san_ is. "I- I cleaned it myself. With bleach."

"It doesn't matter. Does it, Ayumi?"

"I'd crawl through an ocean of blood for you, Mistress Orchid." Slipping down, down, down. Slowly and artfully and it's girlish, elbows planted on the thick hardwood and palms upraised to cradle my chin.

The smile is patient, languorous, _gathering_ on my lips.

"Say _aaaah_."

"Aaaah-"

Always, always, punishment. Her fingers simply _twisted_ into my cheeks.

A strain.

A jerk.

Hah.

Hah.

Hah.

Melt over the table.

A hand on my neck; a _crack_ on a cheek. There can only be _this_. The huge gurgling wet soft moan and mewl and whimper rearing up from my throat. There is a delirium. Yes. That's _exactly_ what it is; every _muscle_ twangs with the shabu, with Ran's fingers, her hands, ah, ah, ah, of course, Mistress Orchid.

"M-M-Mistress Orchid-"

"Isn't she just _ssssssuuuuuuuccccchhhhh_ an obedient bitch-slave?" It's insanity for her, isn't it? It's more than _career_. It's compulsion; it's frenzy. And it's true. There's nothing even near to this in its intimacy, its intensity, unless it's willed _apart_ from the crass commerce in yen in dollars in, well, whatever.

Euros, maybe?

"H-hah, hah, I- I _am_ such an obedient bitch-slave, Mistress Orchid." Wriggling on your belly; naked skin _tasting_ the wood with a candid exposure. With swaying hips and a somatic awareness so _huge_ that the body isn't merely a holistic cohesive thing, but a colony creature, a jellyfish shuddering and quaking and spasmodic with its every facet every _cell_ steeped in this most delectable drug.

No junk; no uppers; no fucking _goofballs_.

Nothing can surpass this.

Her fingers. Slowly, slowly, coaxing, teasing, because this song is about you, isn't it? Or at least you think you're absolutely unequivocally sure and it's just _not_ , is it? It's hers; it's for her. The lyricist and composer and the conductor.

This unhurried symphony of dark-eyed carnalities. It isn't impatient; the _instant_ the violence rears up, it's stilled. Quieted.

"Oh, you're just _so_ cute, aren't you, Ayumi- _tan_?"

"Desperately cute."

"Suck my fingers." Offered and embraced without anything like compunction. Slipped between lips trembling and dewy with spittle and with a tongue obligingly lolling out. Grazed; stroked. It's an intrusion that could only be invited; it's the invader that's implored, besought.

Still, still, a huge urgent _racking_ gasp when the long spearing nails tickle your gag reflex's dying vestiges.

"Oh, listen to _that_. Maybe I should get one of the boys to play with you." Peering down; jaws _slammed_ closed with a palm clasped on my chin. There's no rage no wrath nothing but the simple quiescence in it. It's not even for your own lusts to be denied in some pathetic groveling self-abnegation. It's just...

This.

What you _need_.

"Mmm... 'kay." Gurgling; garrulous. Crane around her to capture one of the boy's eyes. There's a flush. It's huge, hot, intense, _idiotic_. Men. Boys. They're such morons, aren't they? Largely? It's fear.

Fear with the faintest _inkling_ of a girl's agency.

To oppress? Dominate? Or at least that delectable delusion? Oh, _this_ is fine. But when acreages of nude skin confront you in the eye's wink, in the enticement that's nothing as childish as _come-hither_ but just a _now_ , they shrivel.

Wilt and recede.

"W-what? Me?" Some guy. Handsome; twentysomething, probably. Fingers cinched in his shirt and there's a tremor in the face and he _is_ very good-looking.

"Mmm... May I, Mistress Orchid?" It is my right to plead and grovel in my servitude.

"You're such an _obedient_ little slut, aren't'cha, Ayumi?"

"Oh, _veeery_ obedient. And you're totally crazy tonight, right, Mistress Orchid?"

"Fucking _insane_. There's something about you. New perfume?" A graceful quirk in the brows; the eyes are _inflamed_ with it.

"Nah. New outlook. New chems, too, _maaaaybe_. What about Miyuki- _saaaama_? She looks like she's about to _pop_ like a champagne cork, too, and she doesn't even have a guy's thing." But there is no _presumptuous_ overture.

"Mmm. Come, come, _come_ , Miyuki- _san_. I have a gift for _you_ , darling." Ran's fingers; Ran's hands; Ran's _lips_. It's a delirium; it's an astonishment; it's an incredulity with it. Admiring beauty in its most fundamental guise.

Hell, it's _doubly_ beautiful.

Two women.

Slim fingers tucked beneath Miyuki's chin; gorge yourself on the simple height disparity. Ran's probably five-eleven; Miyuki's little more than five-six. And they're both tinier than _I am_ and what the hell does it even _matter_?

The _who, me?_ dude's fingers still tremble, tucked into his ridiculous dress shirt that ain't so crisp any longer. Not that it'd matter. The face is fine. It's unplaceable; not Japanese, not Chinese, not Korean, not _American_ , not black. A perfect whimsical jumble in ethnicities and the jaw is broad the nose proud and the bones simply _vertiginous_. Regal.

Thick shoulders and stern hands and there's still that quintessential shyness that's so supreme in a culture that segregates men and women; a society for which the deepest fantasy barring raping a chick is even to _whisper_ your confession ground out with pathetic stooping pageantry.

A finger quirked.

Glance up at Ran and Miyuki- _tan_ , and they're not only going to town but they've already erected a fucking metroplex in sweat-sodden sexual _psychosis_ around themselves. And not only Ran and Miyuki. It's a manic haze. That worthy elderly lady's half-naked now, and, _damn_ , a sixtysomething can definitely still excite, huh? The body's firm and lean and the fingers are wound around some college kid's thing. An uninspired one; but the guy's transfixed with the still very very _very_ firm tits in their heave and sway and _now_ there's a long wet spatter and spurt and he's just being _twisted_ into her to the fucking root.

Whoa.

Ah.

Ah.

It's an act of sorcery; seifuku schoolgirls consummating the cliché in hungering Lizzie lust.

 _Ah, ah, ah, Hikaru- **tan**. Ah! Risa- **tan**! Yes! Yes! Oh, I always wanted to do this._

And _this_ is melting down into a tangle of limbs without fear without unease; ruffled skirts hiked up along shapely thighs and dumbass sailor tunics unfastened around teenage flesh and there's more than a bit of hunger. Already, already, caressing that most delectable number with mouths and lips and tongues and it's orgiastic, this haze.

Lunatic carnal meltdown.

Some overwrought fiftysomething manager just... Good fucking _god_ , the pants have just fallen down down down from skeletal hips and the hands are slapped on his thighs and there's a writhing madness, ass planted on one of the tables, legs like celery stalks heaved upright and there's a wet sputter in salad oil and the guy's just _impaling_ himself on the planet's hugest daikon.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

Oh, yes. We are all become _exactly_ what we are. Cellulars forgotten. Fuck it, fuck it, this is _reality_. Not two-dee.

This's the simple _truth_ , y'know, kiddies.

Wah! Wah! Wah!

A college orgy; three of them laced together. And now four. Coupling and uncoupling and savoring and tasting novel concatenations in meat and hunger and sweat and luscious juices and a girl's fingers have found quick purchase in some overmuscled athlete's ass and _his_ cock, damn, that's tiny, but _thick_ , at least, it's vanishing between a very shapely young lady's thighs.

 _Her_ coos and growls and whatever else silenced with a pair of legs wound around her face.

Heaving.

Screaming.

The beauty rides and rides and rides and at once there's more than just being _transfixed_. Bottle-blonde elegances; heavy ringlets pitch along her lissome shoulders and the fabric's been shed like a moulting snake and she is a figure that could only be called _serpentine_. Lean and athletic; ganguro complexion but not the makeup. No kogal she; oh, no, no, no. The makeup's heavy and still oh so tasteful, thick around the eyes, her complexion enviably gilded.

The tits are pert, upturned, palms slapped on them with a regular frenzied gasp and heave and wheeze and shiver and the feet are very very _very_ pretty, barefoot in sandals planted on the table, rising and falling rising and falling with the muscular legs' twanging trembling strain.

"Ah! Ah! Ah!"

"I'm a top! Look at me spin like a top! I'm a top! I'm a top on a daikon! I'm a top on a daikon! Wheeeeee!" Manager- _san_ 's quick twists have become wheeling, the heels rapping with a wet regular cadence like a marching band through a swamp at the table on which he's planted himself, and now it's quicker than a millipede in combat boots on hardwood. "Whee! A-ah, ah, ah, someone, someone, catch my spooge! Catch my spooge!"

Why bother?

Aren't we all friends here?

Ran's fingers twisting through Miyuki- _tan_ 's hair.

But the eyes fall, fall, fall.

"Mmm. You're being so _patient_ , Ayumi. Why aren't you just goin' to town?"

"And country. And _how_. Oh, how I'd _love_ it, Mistress Orchid, but you made me _wait_ -"

"Do what you want! I'll just cut in when it appeals to me."

"Then getcher ass over here, kid." More than a finger quirked. "Oh, you're _very_ handsome, laddie. What's your name, boy? Come, come, come, come, _come_. I'm serious; if you're not about to _pop_ in your pants, I'm sure your name must be Ed." A will to _wail_. I will be patient, of course.

The only polite decorum, you understand.

Fingers excavating in a pocket stitched into the satchel; they surface not with anything mind-bending, 'cause, hell, what could be bent further than _this_? It's a likeness of a contortionist pretzel; the hammer's already warped and twisted it on a scalding anvil beyond any ambition of return.

It's just a bit of shabu. Toss it down and there's _joy_. Rearing up higher and higher and hotter and it's more than just _sensitivity_. It's a joy bang sustained. No _new normality_ in the chemical fanaticism seeping into and warping the cells, not only steeping them but deforming them into the junk's own likeness.

It's just _perfection_.

Tongue lolling out.

"Come here and _kiss_ me, honey. What's your name? What's your name? That's right. Come, come, come, _come_."

"M-me?" How _timid_ this raven-maned beauty is. The hair sleek and taut along the scalp and there's the most enchantingly _sainted_ confluence in the masculine and the feminine. Dark skin; firm fingers.

"Uh- _huh_. No one else."

"I... It's- it's Masa-"

"Masa, Masa, Masa. Your name's not _Masa_ now. It's, oh, Henry. Yes. Your new name is _Henry_ -"

"B-but that's not-"

"Henry! Chop-chop!" Palms clapped together with a wet urgent hunger.

There is a life's philosophy in this.

Trip the fuck out. Fuck girls. Rape boys.

Not _exactly_ in that order.

And feed your head.

And then rape more boys and fuck some more girls. Grope and clutch and fingers find purchase on his hips and _this_ is just oh so lovely. Kiss kiss kiss up to the firm belly.

More than _firm_.

Thick.

Chiseled.

"Take. It. Off. Take. It. Off. Take it off take it offffff." Singsong psychosis. And it's _beautiful_ , this body. This stern heavy muscle; a warrior's physique. Lavish with rippling strength. Shirt slipped open and eased away and now, now, now, I am _deeeeply_ in lust.

"Oh, yeah. _This_ is what I wanted. Hey, are you pure Japanese?"

"N-no. My mom's Arabic-"

"Oh, _fantabulous_. Arab women are... How big are her tits? They're _huuuge_ , right? Humongous! Arab women are _gorgeous_. Love 'em. Why doncha invite your mom? Oh, fuck it. Just pull down those pants and _heeere_ we are."

Addiction.

 _This_ is my addiction.

Trip and tumble and stumble and trip again and _submerge_ yourself in the gelatin frenzy that is _this_ and then gorge yourself on the sensual madnesses that race riot up through every vein and it's not _coke_. Coke is one indulgence that's meaningless.

It's a bourgeois high; the clamoring the need the plea for liberation, for, ah, hah hah, this delectable bit of pretension, for _disinhibition_. To be a dog.

But I am already a stray dog, leg swaying over my head while the tongue slaps and slathers and squelches and strokes and the belt's unfastened and the thighs are broad and stern, also, and it's nothing like a woman, but a hamburger is nothing like fine rarefied sashimi, either.

Ice cream is nothing like a grandiose crème brûlée.

But you'll still adore it.

A kiss lavished on the peak.

It's thick.

"Oh, _yes_. This is a _very_ fine thing." Cradle it in an outstretched palm. Draped with feathery hair. "Are you a cherry?"

"W-wha-"

"I asked. If. You. Are. A. Cherry. Are you a neophyte in the nasty dance? Have you never been snorkling up a girl's skirt? Or a boy's pants. Whichever. I am _not_ one to discriminate-"

"U-uh, no, I'm not a virgin-"

"Just _meeeeeeek_. Oh, no, no, no, don't get that _wounded pride_ look. 'cause I'm a fucking tigress, and I want some warm hot pretty prey that won't fight back _too_ much." 'cause it's a point of springing up. Fingers and hands and it's a twist and it's a _dance_.

A lovely one; awe in those huge eyes no longer so limpid and lucid but muddled and befuddled and that's _his_ ass down on the table now, and it's more than just _mounting_ him. Mantling him; hurdling him.

Fingers twisting around that _lovely_ thing.

"You're gonna have some fun with me, Henry. I _love_ that name; really, really. A fantastic name, Henry." Clutch it; cling to it. Know the urgent huge pulsations racing up and down up and down it's ball lightning captured in flesh so so so _hot_ it beggars belief.

But you really can _oooonly_ believe it.

It's here.

Frijid Pink's _House of The Rising Sun_ snapped into the mind's stereo. More precious than the mind's eye.

 _There is a hoooouse in New Orleaaaaans_.

"I- what're you-"

"I'm _raping_ you. Duh. Now, lie back and just love it. Live it, baby. Trip balls and rape boys and fuck girls. Sexy girls." Wet; more than wet. Wetter than wet. "Oh, oh, _oh_ , Haibara's fingers and tongue were just _tremendous_ , but I need somethin' with a little more _heft_.

"A little more meat." Peer down and gorge yourself on the broad geometries; the delicious geographies in the shoulder's convolutions like a glimpse of the Canadian Rockies in muscle and the stern abdomen throbbing with every breath the chest you could probably ferment rye in; the _thing_ there. A delirious thing.

Brushed once against a hungering scalding pair of lips.

Not on your face.

Once.

And again.

The resistance doesn't only melt but just sluices off of the table. If there'd been any.

"Oh, oh, _oh_. Yeah. Thank the goddess. Thank the goddess with me, Henry!" 'cause it's just _poised_ there. Balanced on him; dancing on the peak and it's an exercise in sublime strength and athleticism. Spine arching and still, still, the hips levitate.

"T-t-thank the goddess-" He'd offer his gratitude to Jerry Falwell or Charlie Manson, but, hell, who cares? It's for the proselytizer; not the heathen whose soul has been saaaaaved.

"Good _boy_!" Plunge.

Fall down down down.

 _Impale_ yourself in an instant to the root and now, now, it's the mind's pornographer. But no better-living-through-chemistry prepackaged crude commercial sex in two dimensions could ever capture _this_.

It's a fleeting fugitive immanence.

It's his body.

It's _mine_.

Hips conjoined.

Throbbing throttling walls twisted around him.

"Well?" Taut; tighter than _tight_. Cinching and pulsating and nails prickle at his huge chest. "Well? Well?"

"I- I'm- it feels so good-"

" _Good_ boy. Now, pound me 'til I give you dispensation to _stop_. Or _else_." The _else_ , well, maybe this is an invitation to a delusion that there's an _alternative_.

Why why why _why_ should there be?

Ah!

But it's the first long long long _slooooow_ stroke. This is not quite a pound; but it's to know its every inch with a delirious delectable intimacy. An immediacy; rear up rise up _soar_ and it's a sodden satiny wet _whisper_ up up up to follow. Lunge away; his ass flattened against the table again and the smile's not just _mischievous_.

This ain't only mischief. Oh, no, no, no. 's sexual madness; it's the shabu and the simple tongue-lolling knee-shuddering lust that boils up up up from that cauldron tucked between your thighs. There should be the Pointer Sisters on the radio.

Oh, oh, oh, I _am_ about to lose control. An' do I like it? I _loo-hooove_ it.

"C'mon. C'mon. C'mon." Curtained in hair draped in eyes and crane and strain and twist and everyone else is bifurcated in their madness, stares not transfixed _exactly_ on me but there's a thread. Tug and jerk and there's an immediate collective _gasp_. Magic; supernatural. Superhuman. Whatever it is, it's the awareness that flesh and blood and craving and that juicy convulsive lust converge into something _sublime_.

's the only word.

"Come on, come on, come on, _Heeenry-kun_ -"

"W-why do you keep calling me that-"

"'cause it's a sweet name. I'm gonna _call_ you that, or we're gonna reenact Abe Sada's blaze of glory. Got it?"

"G-g-got it-"

"Yay!" And now, now, now, it's so delicious. The head's thick swollen bulk; straining and bloated and tapering down to a stout shaft whose every geometry can be felt tasted in its elemental perfection _raw_. Perfectly deliriously _raw_. There's nothing but sensual madness here. A psychosexual world where all is beauty and beauty is conjoined.

Ah, ah, ah, let's be absolutely candid. Not only conjoined; not only tethered together. Fucking; fucking; fucking.

Fucking, 'cause that's what's _craved_. Always and forever. The shabu's bubbling up now; the caffeine's sharp kick melts into the deeper exoticism in the chemistries and now now now now now oh good fucking _goddess_ , yeah, the eyes are huger than huge.

Trembling; every _inch_ is something simply... Transmuted. Revised; rearranged; its very _geometry_ in its cells in its atoms its subatomic _everything_ warped and twisted and broken around carnality's axis. Every _brush_ through the sweat puddling in his chest is to bathe yourself in orgasm. A supreme supersaturated awareness.

Almost cinematic; everything silent, so so so so _so_ quiet that a butterfly's wings beating on some distant planet become syncopated thunder through the ears. His blood can be _tasted_ ; a vampiric thing, pouring through flesh, through meat, through skin and bone. Buoying bubbling up through me. A sharp sudden _spearing_ violence in sexual perfection and it's more than orgasm. Orgasm with shabu is something almost perfunctory, 'cause the toes curl bare and graceful and they're twisting over the table and ankles arch and there's a violent heavy hot _grunt_ from his throat.

"Ah, ah, ah, _ah_. Y'felt it, right, Henry- _kun_? I- I just came from you _being there_. So why doncha show me _just_ what these thick delicious muscles can do? 's all boys are good for, y'know. It's _this_. Who wants a musclebound chick?

"'s heresy. Fuck _meeee_. Fuck _meeee_. Or is someone havin' a lil' performance anxiety?" Tease and tease and there's just...

Surrender.

Submission.

The hips rise.

Once.

And again.

"Yeah, yeah, _yeah_." Fingers needn't bother with encouragement; theirs is a self-satisfaction, 'cause there's only the strength in the legs, a sense of _levitation_. His eyes absolutely crazed.

"Ah, ah, _ah_! Have you ever made a girl come before, Henry- _kun_?"

"I- I dunno-"

"Oh, that's just so _fantastic_! Girls should be mean to boys. I'm being _kind_ to you, but, y'know, call it a happy accident or whatever." And it's rising and falling a rhythmic delirium in this now. It's something that defies _language_ ; the lips splayed open, that hungry groping _darkness_ fastened around him, and it's almost almost _almost_ slipping out and it must be seven or eight inches and it's a fucking Coca-Cola bottle in its thickness and _this_ is oh so lovely.

"Ah, _Cola-chan_! You're really doing it!" It's something so fucking deliciously _lurid_. A squelch and spurt like a boot being dragged through mud's clutching embrace; once and again and again and it's pressure and strain and heat and it's a violence that could probably crush coal down into diamond and twist that diamond back into coal and start the cycle again.

Everybody is a-kung-fu fightin' or whatever, and it's more than mad; it's more than _more_. Head thrown back because there's no need even for a glance. The eyes can wander, and it won't matter at all, dragged back to his face in its meltdown thrall. Jaw clenching and eyes _humongous_ ; oh, oh, oh, how _lovely_ they are, shimmering crazed lurid _black_. Molten and demented and the lashes are larger than a man's probably _should_ be; the lips plump and succulent and cherubic and _my_ palms, why, they are, aren't they, they're lacing up through his hair capturing like some warped obsidian mirror the dying sunset.

Purpling smears fade into black but there's only _red_ here; a strange dichotomy in reality, and who can really complain?

"Harder! Harder!" Command and compel and he's being devoured now. The hips pump and pound up up up and there's nothing like gentleness. No orders nothing at all but his fingers _biting_ into thighs and creeping up to lap like hungering rivers slithering through drought-ravaged desert at the confluence of leg and hip and there's encouragement in the eyes in the voice upraised and _warbling_ half-hoarse with the screams that're companion to every orgasm like a fucking marathon through a minefield but more than anything it's the body.

It's the flesh the pussy clutching clenching _shuddering_.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

A melodious rhythm in its palpitations.

"You're driving me fucking _crazy_! This huge cock! Oh, oh, _oh_ , you definitely must've made a girl come unless she was such a huge fucking Lizzie she won't even use a dildo! Oh, oh, oh, _this's_ better than a dildo.

"So hard; so soft. Y'feel like hot iron in silk! C'mon, Cola- _chan_!" And there's nothing more perfect than this. Everything has been cast away. Language and delusions of that febrile thing called dignity. The hell is its worth, is its meaning, but genuflection before idols wrought in others' desires and wishes and preconceptions?

This is _my_ world.

Tremble and shiver and...

"P-put your hands on my ass. Just _hammer_ me at your hips, Cola- _chan_. C'mon; c'mon; c'mon. 's so fucking perfect." How can anyone refuse? And he knows a boy's place.

Silent and on his back.

"C'mon, Cola- _chan_. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. _Yes_!" Oh, oh, oh, now _this_ 's the madness that I crave; that everyone wants; that everyone needs.

The sixtysomething woman's very very _very_ comfortably on her back; an inkling of a few muttering bits of encouragement to manager- _san_ , the daikon still sprouting with a reasonable likeness of some demented alabaster flower from his ass. A hand's outstretched; pounding it, pumping it, and there's only _exuberance_ in this.

 _Ah, ah, ah, manager- **san**. Do it harder; do it harder; pound my fuck! Pound my fuck!_

Yes, yes, yes.

"Oh, we can't let ourselves be eclipsed by a fuckin' _retiree_. We're young and strong and nubile and virile, Cola- _chan_. That lady's all washed up! Do you wanna fail beside a fucking washed-up retiree?!" No, no, no! "Faster; faster-"

"I'm gonna _come_! If I go any faster, I'm gonna come!" This must be intuited from the gibberish gurgling from rubbery lips that've been twisted and teased and warped and are _very_ comfortably unvulcanized and the tongue rolling out from the lips.

"Ah! You're serious! On top of me, then! Bang me like a fuckin' kettle drum." Tumble on your back and it's to pull _his_ very very generous bulk, the thickly-muscled belly and the heavy chest and the lavishly strong _everything_.

That.

That.

Heels twisted together over his spine; pull and pummel and there're long huge hammering _kicks_ at him. Heigh-ho, Silvah!

Do it.

Do _me_.

Wet and spatter and there're long long long _lunges_ now; impaled with its javelin bulk and it's even fucking _huger_ , isn't it?

"Push it back, honey; hold _on_. I don't want you comin' _in_ me 'til I'm satisfied." Will that _ever_ be? It's so cruel, isn't it?

And now, now, Ran's simply... Ah, ah, how lovely.

Instant-onset orgasm with a _glimpse_ of that delirium in long long long _everything_ ; in legs and arms and fingers and it's _Mistress Orchid_ simply skewered on the intricate constellation of thick groaning black leather and latex and fuchsia rubber that's been slathered with a condom's shimmering sheath _ripping up up up_ into her belly.

Not the familiar warm wet lust but something more decadent. Her ass cradles it; poised balanced with exacting elegance atop lovely Miyuki, and the eyes are more than crazed. Beholding the simple elemental madness in the dildo twisting with graceful rippling definition through Ran's taut belly, sleek with softness' tiniest kiss and still so so so so firm.

Everything dies.

Bliss in mortality. Life rejuvenated, 'cause it really only _can_ be. Once and again and again and Ran is not wanting for confidence, for conviction. A voice strangled and distended into a crazed little warble.

"Waaha... Ah, ah, ah, that's so fucking _amazing_ , Miyuki- _tan_. Now, now, now, _you_ do it. Do it. Do it. I- I'll get on my back, too, and you fuck me 'til I can't even _stand_ tomorrow." Much less sit, one imagines.

Ran.

It's so lovely; this booth not enclosed in walls or boundaries but planted at the restaurant's center, and now now now _she_ is beside me, wriggling slithering and fingers are outstretched, palms cradling her cheek and mine.

A kiss; necks straining and bodies arching and there's a regular shuddering cadence converging and falling apart again and tumbling back together like drunks negotiating a hall tapering to a single door. Ran's lips devour.

More than a kiss.

Wet and slathering and sticky with her rouge, with my gloss. Fall together and slip apart and it's in the tumbling flesh; in his palms clamped on the table, his mouth cradling my jaw, wandering along a cheek, quick flitting kisses with a cadence like a hummingbird's wings.

I am in lust.

Deeply and desperately in this.

"P-put your hands on my tits. Touch them; grope them; _pull_ my nipples. Goddess, goddess, _goddess_ , Cola- _chan_." Trembling and convulsive and the legs shudder and the body _scrawls_ with it; with humongous gurgling smears that're being slathered on every nerve.

Every _muscle_ is stitched with him, with _them_. With Ran's hand, also, Mistress Orchid's, ah ha ha ha, outstretched and clutching.

Fastening around a nipple; his body limns a luscious bow, twisting down down down, mouth settling on my right breast.

Suckling.

Groping.

Nibbling.

Quaking and spasming and there's a kick, once and twice and again and again and again. Raking heels at his spine and hips and there's only _stout_ sturdy muscle there. A perfect canvas for carnality's abuses.

"I- I can't hold it back anymore; I can't hold it back anymore." Poor Cola- _chan_ 's eyes could probably accommodate at least a few galaxies in their vastness. The lips shudder and _beseech_. So fucking adorable; the boy imagines it has agency. "I'm gonna come. I- I really want to-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_." Madness, isn't it? To deny him that? But, hell, it's not for every _boy's_ bliss, is it? It's. Fucking. _Mine_.

"W-what do you mean? I- I need to come-"

"No one _needs_ to come, Cola- _chan_. Don't you know _aaaanything_ about Taoist alchemy? Hold it back; you'll be even _more_ vital-"

"But I'm goin' crazy." His eyes are more than _huge_ ; they could devour universes akimbo in their cradling vast shimmering madness. "I- I need it. I need it. I need it. I- I wanna come inside you-"

"'cause you never have in a girl, right?" And now, now, now, he understands. Epiphany has been tasted; toes and leather _slip_ over the sweat-slathered skin with a wet gliding grace. Taste the muscle in its rippling heavy definition.

A quick _slap_.

"You've never come in a girl before, right, Cola- _chan_ -"

"N-n-never. Never done it raw-"

"Oh, _my_." And a glance at Ran; at the eyes that betray absolutely nothing but the deepest delirium in this. Forbidden? Forbidden?

 _What_ even _is_ forbidden?

Forbidenness?

Who _cares_?

Swallow her tongue; pull it down down down between the lips. Silence her.

And there's still the voice.

"Oh, you don't want to get all _dirty_ , Ayumi- _tan_ , with some guy's nasty cum?"

"Uh- _uh_." It's so strange, isn't it? Just _lying_ here; on your back with her and it's reality inverted, 'cause the true servants are Miyuki and Cola- _chan_. "Uh- _uh_. I'd rather not. I like it; s-s- _sometimes_." Trembling with his hips' slow regular pump now.

Obedient.

Oh, goddess, goddess, goddess, his blood is a fuckin' _chainsaw_ ripping up between my thighs. Throbbing through that humongous thing that's cradled between legs that's beseeching passage _deeper_ than what the body can even _swallow_.

It's a fuckin' cobra wriggling between your lips; it's a sledgehammer _pounding_ at the gates.

"You're gonna bruise my fucking _cervix_!"

"Let him come in you, Ayumi- _tan_." Wha? Ran's voice deep, husky, _dark_. "C'mon. Don't you want to be _aaaaaallll_ lubed up for Miyuki?"

"G-goddess, Mistress Orchid-"

"I'm _ordering_ you to do it." Ah. Well.

There we are.

Fingers and hands; twisting up up up and they're _clenching_ now. Those delicious syllables that cohere and crash together into a phrase too fuckin' scholarly for what it is.

Erotic asphyxiation.

Eroticasphyxiation.

Choke me.

Choke me.

 _Squeeze_.

And receding.

"C-c'mon, Cola- _chan_. Choke me; choke me. Choke me. I want your big strong hands around my neck." And there's fear.

Fear, not because of this deed, because of its violence, but this cruel raking abuse that rips at the shoulders, that flays the spirit's flesh from its metaphorical bones.

 _Judgment_.

Someone will know.

Right?

I will no longer be polite.

I will no longer be upright.

No longer be bourgeois.

I'll be one of _those_ people.

What people?

Fuck if I know. That ain't the point.

Not just _one of those people that choke pretty girls_.

It's one of those _freaks_ ; one of those that no longer _belong_ in this sainted ideal called polite society.

"If you don't choke me, you're not gonna come in me. If you _do_ , oh, oh, oh, if you _do_ , I'll let you fill me like an éclair with jizz." And there we are. Not even an ultimatum.

No intervention courtesy of Our Lady of Blue-Balls.

And there we are.

"I- it's really okay, um-"

"I'm _Ayumi-chan_."

"Ayumi- _chan_?"

"Sure. I _want_ it." And so there they are. Fingers. Goddess, his _fingers_. Thick and stern and sinewy and they're settling around the throat's delicate lissome contours and it's something sudden. Urgent. Reflexive.

Muscle-memory in sexual psychosis; toes curl and legs are simply flattened outstretched heels _slapping_ at the table arms feigning a slackness that's only tension surpassing its own simple geometries and it's not even breathlessness yet but just _him_.

His body; the ebbing oxygen in your lungs and you're drowning in your own body because he is _not_ delicate in the throttling and there's a wish a will for absolutely nothing else.

"Do it hard. Do it hard. Pound my pussy; hammer my cervix!" Squalling; rearing up against him and it's a last bit of guidance command dictation and now, now, there's a heavy metal hysteria roaring up and down up and down every fucking vein every artery a yowl a screech and squeal and howl and he's _there_.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes_.

Chainsawing up through me.

Rending me open.

It's coming.

Flesh groaning clutching clenching around him and palms _clap_ on his shoulders and on his cheeks and it's a slap and a swat and nails like iron talons are brandished now and they're ripping and raking furrowing his back and it's _here_.

It's _here_!

Orgasm after orgasm after orgasm; machine-gun cadence and it's a perfection. That _moment_ when a man and a woman converge, when reality is defied; the fundamental unfairness in a man's flesh simply condensing crushing _crunching_ down into that narcissistic diamond-hard core. Even in the delusion that they can savor the full-body perfection in sexual sublimity enrobing the body, it's _nothing_ like a woman.

Long heavy hot scalding threads stitched through every nerve and tugging you apart into little more than fine brittle fibers in an _instant_.

And it's gathering there for him. Falling falling lower lower lower a huge bubbling cauldron settling between the thighs and throbbing and roiling and burbling and it's more than a _boil_.

"I'm coming!" His voice surpasses escape velocity.

Soon, soon, soon, or not at all, who fuckin' cares, it'll hitch itself to a bit of ice lacquered on a dust mote flitting through the universe's endless scope and it'll fall into some lovely six-breasted beauty's ear on one of Alpha Centauri's planets and there we will be.

Ah! Degenerate!

An invasion!

And there will still be this morsel of inquisition... Mmm... Was it so fantastic? Maybe we shouldn't've lain to waste this little blue marble ricocheting through the galaxy.

Fuck it.

He's _growing_.

The head flares.

And it's raked ripped tearing a sense that it's _scraping_ up and down every wall every convolution and the hips've twisted with a natural lover's ease and it's finally finally finally rearing _up_ out of him.

Explosive.

Not a slosh.

Not a splash.

A _spearing_ arc gouting up against that spongy clamoring skin that's perfection's very guise, and electricity has displaced sight, humongous convulsive neon-napalm threads that curdle in the corneas and become reality.

"Hahaaaaaa!"

Laughter and laughter and laughter in perfection.

Sobbing your bliss.

 _Yes_. Yes. Yes. A world wrought in this _word_ ; a world a universe the People's Republic of _Yes_. You know it. It's something transcendental; bleeds into Ran and sloshes around between her ears before rearing up through the eyes and spearing into Miyuki and you can _taste_ the light in its strawberry gradations while it's being twisted into prismatic convolutions and spit up from _her_.

Wreathes the restaurant.

It's _here_.

It's not some crude stupid euphemism.

It's juicy, thick, _sumptuous_. You can feel it; you _know_ it in its every vicissitude. Vast ropy cables raking ripping tearing. They should peel through me; they can't, can't, their destiny denied. Oh, well.

His cheeks more than _reddening_ ; scarlet. Muscle and sinew rear up through the flesh drawn taut and trembling with a tension that nothing no imagery no language nothing can capture. Tighter than drum-tight; tighter than _anything_.

 _ **Howl**_.

Voice upraised like a wolf baying at the moon's cold glint slithering through forest canopy.

Pull him; _tear_ at him.

His lips and Ran's and there's a hysteria in that succulent sticky _humanity_ racing up up up rushing out an explosive flair that should probably only ever find purchase in a fucking manga, but here we are.

Painted in grandiose slashing strokes.

Stillness.

Stillness.

His chest; mine; convergences at their heaving breathless gasps' apexes. Both and neither at once. Both of us drowning in this. Fingers still bite into my neck.

"Slap me, Cola- _chan_." And there's another bit of reticence.

Ah.

Ah.

 _Can I do that?_

Not the possibility; not the _potential_ in it. Yes or no. Because it's a comfortable certain _yes_.

But where the hell will I be _after_ that?

Is it a threshold that you dare _never_ trespass?

Pull a hand up up up.

"C'mon. Hit me. I want to be able to see your palm print in hot red negative tomorrow morning, Cola- _chan_. Unless you're too much of a pussy. I _know_ boys are just too damn pathetic; it's really true.

"I need to give you orders _and_ permission. It's great, huh, Mistress Orchid? Boys are just... Goddess, they're just _toys_ , right?" A sneer.

Cheeky.

More than enough cheek to fuel a truculent army invading borders of good taste and obedience.

"Right, Mistress Orchid?"

"Oh, n-n-no doubt." Ah, ah, this tremor, this trill, this sumptuous husky hot melody that rears up in a warbling coo from her lips now. "Boys really _are_ weak; you haven't learned how to order 'em around yet, Ayumi- _tan_.

"Not well enough, anyway-"

"I'm an amateur, Mistress Orchid. I defer to thine experience."

"You need to find their pivot; and then give it a _kick_. This _lovely_ big boy, for instance?" Eyes akimbo now, both pairs, inverted and still, still, what's the meaning in it when they're both still upraised and transfixing _his_?

Two beautiful women.

Tongue flitting at my ear; her eyes for me now for a moment.

Fleeting and delectable.

Ah.

More than fleeting.

Tongue serpentine now, hot hot hot slick with spittle thick and straining between her jaws, pouring along the ear's shell. Kissing, kissing, kissing, my right ear _dragged_ between her lips.

"H-hah. Hah. Mistress Orchid. Ngn... If you're not gonna slap me, pussy-boy, then just pull the fuck out of me and lick the jizz out of my cunt." And that's exactly what's being done.

Damn.

Even _Ran's_ eyes are more than a little disbelieving. That great bulk just _draaaaaaaaagged_ out of me; slowly, slowly, his eyes narrowed to sharp feline slits, the jaw trembling, thick, a huge heaving collective groan torn from our lips.

"C-Cola- _chan_ -"

"I can't hit a girl. That wouldn't be right; it felt weird _choking_ you." What's worse? Throttling or slapping? But we have our boundaries, haven't we? And it's something so lovely, admiring that colossal pulsating bulk, still at half-mast, goddess, it's beautiful, isn't it? Shimmering with me; with him.

With that sticky rheumy lust conjoined.

Falling to the table and it's something brazen now, legs dragged over shoulders more than broad more than only _mountainous_.

Can feel a throbbing musical cadence grating its talons up and down with playful elegance through every nerve.

 _Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive. Stayin' aliiiiiiiii_ -

"Wah!" When there's no delicacy at all; but it's perfectly _studied_ in its indelicacy. In the palms _scalding_ themselves into negative that should be carnation across my thighs with the most achingly dainty caress; when he's just _burying_ himself now between my legs.

A kiss kiss kiss slathered with pussy churning with _him_ , and, well, the hell's wrong with that? It's what every chick _craves_ from a man; that polarized extreme finally abandoned. What? You can feed it to _me_? You can eat out _my pussy_? But ask you to lick it from me is just _that_ extreme?

Fucking hypocrisy.

Wriggling; writhing. An insanity in this; palms clamped on my tits and it's to squeeze and clench and grope and a glance cast up only with the regular wriggling movement in the spine and shoulders seesawing over the table with his _feasting_ captures Miyuki's eyes.

They're no longer _organs_ ; no longer bits of biology. Crazed sexual warps; a passage to a parallel universe that no consecration in chemistry could ever aspire to claim. This is hers; and this is mine, also, naturally and natively and with only the perfection in lust's urgent stab to heave it into being.

Black; blacker than black; darker than an abyss. Twinned black holes and the body saunters and mambos on the event horizon and it's perfectly content to be there, ripped and torn and tugged and twisted but never quite breaking.

She is shuddering.

She is spasming.

She is _mad_ with it.

Pumping; huge lunging regular sleek strokes that ornament the ears in the wet well-lubricated spatter churning up from Ran's ass and there's a will to be there. A _craving_ to be but the eyes are dragged back in an _instant_ when his tongue carves deeper, deeper.

Fingertips steepled around that place that becomes with masculine selfishness with sexual solipsism the universe's very core. It is the axis around which all whirls and whorls and pivots and pitches; long thick fingers _splay_ open the lips and the mouth joins _mine_ , that mouth there, tongue not only unfurling or tumbling out but simply jabbing. Quick deft strokes; deft pummeling _thrusts_ and it's a technique you could only liken to fencing. Absolute unqualified aggression. There is no pirouette and there is no recoil and there is nothing but the attack, attack, attack.

's fucking stab-centric kendo.

"Ah! Ah!" Wordless madness on my lips. Well, _Ah_ is a word. Sorta.

"You look like _you're_ having fun-" While Ran's eyes are glazed-over insanity, delirious and drunk with Miyuki's quick spattering strokes.

"He's- he's just _peeling_ the cream out of pussy, Mistress Orchid. He's eating me; he's eating me alive." Fingertips pluck and strum at nipples more than just inflamed. "I- I- I'm goin' crazy-"

"Oh, _Miyuki-tan_." Ran's voice is sonorous sonic wickedness; is a calm that belies the body's, well, _everything_. "I think it's time for _you_ to have some pussy, too. Not _mine_ ; peel off that rubber and use another one.

"There's something for you to do."

"M-me, Mistress Orchid?" Miyuki's eyes more than just enormous now. They've melted down into insanity; drugless, because there's absolutely no need for anything _but_ this. This is her junk, and it's an instant-onset addiction without anything like the cruel twisted figment of normality it generates. A perennial joy bang that can only intensify in its enormity.

It's a heroin surpassing any other sloshing through the veins, wet and sloppy and _messy_. Spittle dribbles down her chin like a starving man stumbling into the words _all-you-can-eat_. A craving for more, and more, and more.

"That's _right_. Or rather, _someone_ for you to do."

"Yes, Mistress Orchid." Is it obedience when it's lubricated with that perfect selfishness in Miyuki's eyes? "I- I'm going to come again!" It's something theatrical; supersaturated drama. Not announced once, and now it's compensation for every silent instant, for every lapse, lips quivering jaw distending and a bellow a groan a growl a crazed trembling _animal_ pitch is simply slopping out, slovenly and indifferent to everything but the self.

The insanity that is this _perfection_ ; this fulfillment. Hands not for her own skin but only Ran's; slithering up up a tangled serpentine nest of digits along her round hips and settling in the fine dimpling convolutions where they meet the thighs and up and up and up and down again.

A kiss on the heavy succulent tits _bouncing_ at that instant when hips converge.

"Do it _now_ , Miyuki- _tan_ -"

"Y-yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Dragggged out. Slowly, slowly, tremulous and tormented like Cola- _chan_. And _his_ mouth slathers and slavers and hungers and this is to know something comfortably beyond the looking-glass. There is a feral insanity in this; there is a simple _elemental_ intensity that dwarfs and surpasses so absolutely every other wan bloodless diluted imitation and impersonation, well, why should anyone even _bother_?

Why not just fall here, here, _here_? Steep yourself in something not only primordial but primeval; something antediluvian, where Eve named Hawa and Lilith cavort and there are unknowable gardens lush in their protean green and we will taste reality's beginning and we will know the _Origin_ of all, not only of the species but time and the will that motivates _everything_.

His tongue rips me open.

His fingers are more than crazed, more than hungry, and the body half- _levitates_ into a straining sit up posture just to behold the impossibility in one two three four at _once_ , those ridiculous colossal triumphal fingers, _prising_ apart the lips. Liberating the cum; feeling it dribble down down down melting into syrupy lust and into the spittle gathering in its effusion and he's content to drink me and to drink himself and Haibara should _also_ be there.

And the Goddess.

Ah!

Not forgotten; no, no, no. She is the dictator, the wicked despot, the Big Woman Big Vegetable She is the Mama that peers from the wall. Which one?

 _Every_ one, dahlink. Every one. It is _her_ portrait that ornaments every vertical swath that can accommodate it. Doesn't need to be a wall. A pricking bit of architecture; when children heap together bricks and blocks, there must be one of her portraits in miniature there, also, or the miniature secret police will be arriving soon to punish this impiety.

The Goddess' essence her juicy hungers her _magic_ , they suffuse this.

His eyes know this.

Suddenly immense.

"W-whoa, whoa, whoa." Not falling away; just...

Oh, it's Miyuki- _tan_ now. That ridiculous fucking dildo that's less a dildo and more a cervical battering ram just announcing itself there now, shimmering with the condom dragged lucent over that sumptuous sexual fever-dream in rubber trembling in its profane arcing sweep from the leather and latex slathered over her hips.

"Mmm... Look. At. _That_." And now Ran's, well, it _is_ a flop.

In the tits' heavy soft _tumble_ , a sense of some almost parasitic life in their delicious _largeness_ enameled to her, succumbing to gravity microseconds before the body. But flop is altogether too indelicate. It's a half-inch tumble from shoulder to firm gracefully rounded belly; palms upraised to cradle her jaw.

"Wow-"

"It's _yours_ , y'know, Ayumi-"

"S-seriously. Looks a little big-"

"For that ridiculously _slutty_ pussy? Nah. I think you're _very_ well-equipped-"

"Y'sound almost like your mom, you know, Mistress Orchid-"

"Don't talk about mommy."

"Why? Eri- _chenchei_ drives me fuckin' crazy with her magic. I can't believe it; I really can't. And her _tongue_ -" Silenced in an _instant_ with a palm not just clamped but _clapped_ on my lips; and now, now, her left hand's outstretched and nestling against a breast and there is Ran's command.

"Fuck her. _Now_. Miyuki- _tan_ , I want you to fuck our nasty lil' Ayumi 'til she loses her mind like you." Oh, oh, oh.

Unburdened with those cruel words.

With stamina.

With refractory periods.

Even while poor displaced Cola- _chan_ just eases back on his heels. Miyuki's strength, her conviction, they're the madwoman's. Unperturbed with muscle's vicissitude, it's a violence that plumes up as irresistible as any futuristic murderous robot and emphatically more photogenic.

Awed with her; silenced with Ran's hand.

And nipples are plucked.

Pulled. Strummed and stroked and torn and there's a will a wish suddenly not to refuse with any authenticity but to just fulfill those fundamental geometries. To kick your legs and thrash your body and heave and howl and plead with little-girl madness, _Ah, no, no, no! You can't do this to me! I'm so sweet and adorable and innocent and waaaah_ -

It's a lunge.

 _Jabbed_ into me.

Impaled in one huge stroke still squelching and spattering with his hunger smeared there. It's a sense of living archeology. Just suddenly staggering through a corridor nestled deep in the earth carved along meandering caverns whose stalactites dribble with briny water and patter into pools that will ultimately rear up into stalagmites that will become new walls and suddenly, suddenly, the ragged divots and tears and flesh-ripping rock have become sleek smoothed _stone_ and there they are.

Ah! Everyone from _Genesis_.

So lovely to meet you, Azrā'īl. A pleasure to meet you, Jibraīl. Mmm. Yes. Yes. Oh? A barbecue?

It's there.

Always there.

It's the ghosts of lovers past, probably, also. It's everything. A delirious heady broth and it's burbling and it's _this_. This instant when flesh joins flesh even if it _is_ just a bit of latex sapped from a tree in hot tropical places and formed in cold laboratories with a medical-grade dildo and there's another that's just _plunging_.

Imploding around it.

Silenced with Ran's fingers; and now, now, there are her lips. Leaning up over me; craning and twisting and her tits have become a more compelling gag and blindfold at once than hands. Fingers wriggle and writhe and they are surrogate limbs, a strength that bears her along flesh. Skin upon skin.

Lips whisper over nipples that've swollen to angry hunger.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, and...

And it's _there_.

In me.

 _Wrenched_ out without delicacy and shoved back again and it's a rarefied serenade in a quick sputter and pop and it's air and breath and it's a sense of the lungs' convulsions mirrored in _that_. In the huge gradations in lust that flare up and tumble back down, a carnal circulation that coils and ripples through every vein and artery.

Orgasm coalesces, settles, and simply _breaks_. Its every shard introduces itself intimately to the muscle.

I am riven open and stitched together with another long slow gasp and I become one again only to be broken.

Her mouth. Ran's mouth and suddenly, suddenly, it's not even on my belly but just _there_. A mischievous conquerer and she is and can only be, because this is her birthright. Two tandem blisses pullulate; reach up from their sprouts in the skin and they introduce themselves in their questing coiling growth through the body and simply _explode_ up.

Her fingers cradle and bracket the lips; cinch down for fleeting capturing moments surer than the muscles whose strength has slackened with the lubricating cum and the juices that bubble up in their simple nymphomaniac hugeness and _will_ not condescend to stop Miyuki for an instant.

Squeezing.

It would be known even in total numbness with the huge gurgle and groan that spray up from Miyuki's mouth and it's less psychosomatic and more transcendental. An awareness that this fantastical bit of rubber has been grafted into her body.

It is _of_ her now.

Simply _is_.

Ran's tongue swept down down down and there's not the presumption to touch her, because this is not the point at all! It's to be devoured; it's to be eaten. It's not beneficence. Orgasm is _her_ reward; the scraps are just tossed to me and obligingly rejuvenated with that velvet stripe's ripple and wriggle down down down.

Up again; knowing the...

"M-Mistress Orchid!" Keening it.

There are eyes riveted to us.

They are amateurs; we are the masters.

They scribble with crayons, and Ran is Gentileschi with her oils and what is being painted is now absolutely _inexpressible_. It defies language and even sensation because it's just altogether too _huge_. You'd need to crane away and away and away and even then, even then, it'd be a muddle like admiring an elephant's ass with an electron microscope.

She is a Junoesque figure.

Ran.

And Miyuki has become her supplicant. I am entranced in sensation, because Ran's pussy in its hairless delectation lies _there_ , transfixing the eyes and denying the hands and tongue. The lips that have slipped open with a sloppy languid enticement; one of the full-mouthed Caravaggio boys that could only be a nail hammered in your heterosexuality. Or homosexuality. Whichever.

Want her.

Need her.

Miyuki's hips _conjoined_ with mine now; a brutal devastating labor and it's with a sharp wet kiss that can be felt scrawling through _her_ belly and tumbling down through the dildo and ripping up through _me_ even through the condom.

Peeled away again.

"M-Mistress Orchid, lemme have some." I am much too proud not to beg. "I want to lick your pussy; eat your pussy; I wanna haaaave some-"

"Oh, you _impatient_ little girl. Why don't you do something _useful_ for once with those huge tits that just turn boys' and girls' heads to mush and help your new friend, Cola- _chan_ , there?" Ah. Ah. Ah. A _perfect_ name for him. Mmm.

But then...

Then there won't be Ran's lips, right?

Oh, fuck it. She's _already_ climbing off. But then there is a miracle. Bodies in their contortion; dragged further away from the table 'til I'm being... Being _supported_ on shoulders like Atlas; and her hands are there.

And you were there.

And you were there.

I think?

Well, maybe not. You should've been. It's _fantabulous_. Her lips; her lips. Her _mouth_ , slathering flicking flitting and it's her tongue just plunging up into that pucker that craves and clamors and it's not my pussy but my ass, that convolution in flesh like a child's portrait of a star. And now, now, that star is being teased open and mined and _exploited_ by civilizations immeasurably more advanced than ours, and it's to know the graceful turbulence in that humongous fucking dildo raked along the thick wet intruder jabbing itself, supported with her fine slender fingers, across a barrier that's as meaningful as a damp paper umbrella in a monsoon.

And _he_ is there.

Animated with a hunger more esurient than the word can support; it's bloating and distending and finally just exploding like an overripe peach in a microwave with this word. No need for this word now; no need for _any_.

"I- I-"

"Won't you fuck my tits?" Eyes pivoting slowly up, oh so slowly, in enticement. Capturing the eyes through lashes that imprison in India ink quills; palms already _slapping_ together the lavish sweat-wet skin. He's there; at once, reality is bifurcated as surely as any surgical intervention, but this ain't an epidural.

The sensation soars grows gathers when you're _filled_ with such absolute perfection; when there are these lovely gradations in quiescence, in genuflection, and he's so adorably knelt, his generous bulk poised on thick muscular legs, bowing and swaying now while novel succulent skin is tasted wrapped around that plump thing that still can vanish between the conjoined mounds.

Nipples brazed together with the heat; they're delicious, huge huge _huge_. Everything is immense; everything _grande_ , you know. _Gigante_? Whatever. Just pump pump _pump_ and his hips yield a luxuriant and gratifying wet spatter and there's only psychosis animating the flesh and spearing down from the stare that refuses resolutely to blink for _one_ instant.

This could be the last moment this rarefied bliss is savored, couldn't it?

So why not _gorge_ yourself? Eat and eat and eat and laugh and _bloat_ with the sensual universe gathering around this. It layers and layers and layers itself; a jawbreaker in its elemental hugeness, cramming itself through every nerve through the body's every _fucking inch_. Advisedly, dig?

'cause _this_ is the body's use at this instant.

Nothing is more glorious.

Heaving.

Pumping.

"I- I want to touch you-" Oh, oh, and now cute lil', well, not lil', but _cute huge_ Cola- _chan_ 's pleading. _Imploring_. The voice wet, breathy; the eyes rheumy.

"Slap me. Finally fucking _slap_ me. You ate your cum out of my pussy; put your hands on my cheeks. I love it."

"I- I can't do it-"

"Such a _puuuuusssssy_." Cooing the recrimination. But, oh, oh, oh, as imperturbable as a boulder steeped in liquid oxygen. He should be suspended from electromagnets, cradled in that quivering polarized haze.

Should be _slapped_ 'til he can be broken and reassembled into something a bit more _obedient_.

"You're such an uncompliant Cola- _chan_. T-the fu..." Silence.

Silence.

'cause it's just the head _jammed_ between lips comfortably in the throes of teasing and tormenting.

The eyes suddenly painfully profoundly _guilty_.

"S-sorry, Ayumi- _san_ -"

"Oh, can the _san_ crap. And you're damn _right_ you're sorry. Put it back; but I'll fucking _tell_ you when to d-d-do it!" And you're less than daunting when fulfillment, that cruel fleeting evanescent thing, a fortress wrought in mist and steam wrought and simply melting off in a breath, crashes and careers down every fucking limb.

Pools between my thighs.

"A-ah, ah, ah." Fingers _clutch_ now; grope and tear and tug and pull and he's so very very _very_ sweet with _us_. With that honeyed delectation and Miyuki's lunges and pumps have begun to define themselves in shuddering explosive bliss with every stroke and every deep low ragged gasp and Ran's a playful and wicked tyrant, her tongue endless.

Slackening; every inch slips away from its firm purchase in hard muscle and becomes gelatin with her kiss. Her tongue's quick flitting stripes; its slow languorous rippling. Hungering and eating more and more and more.

His cock jammed between my lips; pulled down down down 'til it's not only to _suck_ but something more peristaltic. So clinical; so fucking true. Swallow him down down down and there fundamentally is no gag reflex now.

Tug it into the throat; twist around that bloated straining head and there's no ordeal. Just his hips crammed against teeth and it's a sharp delicious bite serenaded with a hiss.

 _Fasten_ the jaws around him.

Drag it away and push back again and again and again.

Speech in broken flitting morsels.

"Fuck-"

Pump.

"My-"

Pump.

"Mouth even-"

Pump pump pump pump-

"Harder, you fuckin' boy. And- and at _least_ use my hair like a handlebar. Jeeeebus." Why not? "Yeah, yeah, _yeah_." Lick and lap and it's such a lovely lollipop, isn't it? Cram it into a cheek and you're an adorable little squirrel and the dildo's grinding huge quavering trills from the throat; lips stitch together around him. "Fuck my face. Fuck my mouth. C'mon; c'mon; c'mon. You're just a fucking," well, why not be as _authentic_ as possible, every one of these adorable bits of recrimination of invitation of encouragement in a drill sergeant's carnal incantations ruptured with a long squelching _slurp_ and spurt and sputter, "Boy.

"That's all you're good for; a nice-lookin' face and a good pair of hips and strong arms and a strong fucking _back_. So put your back into it, you fuck-meat." And there's just a simple sincerity in it. Pull and jerk at him and now, now, now, finally fucking _finally_ , well, there we are.

Dagger it into me; into the throat.

Everything _poised_ to admit them; a wish that they could just conjoin somewhere in my belly.

Gurgling with him.

Cooing with Ran.

 _Wailing_ with Miyuki- _tan_.

Ah, ah, ah. It's more than a purple haze. Neon violet. Fucking _indigo_ haze. Insane and insane and insane and the shabu's just a limp lank anemic thing beside this _magic_ 's enormity. Gurgle and growl and groan and he's there.

Already.

Or maybe it's been an hour. Whatever. Whatever. Time is a meaningless and trivial thing; everything, an eternity, condensed into the interval between breaths and it's rearing up and a boy's lovely thick thing when it's _so_ large is an exercise in the most delirious consensual asphyxiation when it's being _pushed_ into your throat for fuck's sake it just _fills_ the neck.

Bloating bubbling up up up and it's scalding. Untasted in its enormity; flowering and raking at the esophagus and it's to know a novel sensation that those that've never gorged themselves on boy fuck-meat would never really quite appreciate.

Vast; but it's swallowed down. Patience is rewarded not only in the surrogate pussy that your neck becomes for the most fleeting instant, while the cheeks tremble and strain with spittle and with _that_ , with its root, teased and tingled and there's more sensation crammed there than anything but...

Well, anything else.

Miyuki's palms on my belly; scalding in fingers' creases traced tattooed down my sides and hips and finally, finally, just daggering into my pussy beside the dildo and it's absolute madness to be so absolutely fucking _filled_.

Ran's fingers and hers and the dildo and Cola- _chan_ and it's all just...

 _This_.

The room melts; becomes a fine painting tossed into a bonfire and the oils don't flare into ash and wreckage but slowly slowly oh so slowly become a tarry slurry spilling down the canvas and these are the walls and the sun in its shackled captive immensity in its impossible sunset perpetuity through the window.

The last few drops _wrung_ with hungry lips onto my tongue; taste it, taste it, and it's that bitter kiss of bleach and it's still oh so _sweet_. Salted pineapple and a faint copper tang like stale coins. Perfection.

Slumping away.

 _All_ yields and wilts. Even Miyuki. They are marionettes with cables carved off at the root with napalm-slathered blades, finer than a katana.

They are just...

Faltering.

But Ran is there. A kiss, a kiss, and she is no longer anything as fanciful as Mistress Orchid but only _Ran_ , and even manager- _san_ has crumpled into a sexual catatonia, the daikon shimmering with oil still springing up from his ass like produce from the planet's most exotic volcanic plot.

Her fingers have liberated the dildo like a looter springing with expert grace into a shop; a knowing and confident snap, and it's obvious that this has been coveted, slavered over for days and weeks and months and years and it's being _introduced_ again to what it's abandoned. But with her wrist's delicate and graceful quirk; with the smile that's rocketed well past knowing into ignorant again and _back_ into perfect omniscience adorning those wicked voluptuous lips.

"You're fucking _poison_ , y'know, Ayumi." And what can be said but a sound ebullient _heeeeellll, yeah_? But there's nothing to be said but, _Ah!_

Ah, ah, ah, ah!

Is this the soundtrack of your own conception?

Squalling with the dildo's quick jackhammering cadence; defter than even Miyuki's hips' crazed relentless rhythm.

"M-Mistress Orchid- ah, ah, ah-"

"Oh, you're driving _eeeveryone_ absolutely fuckin' insane, Ayumi. What _is_ it about you today? You're just- just _unbelievable_ -"

"I- I can't..."

"What? Can't take it anymore?" Is her arm actually _slowing_? The muscle's rearing up into a definition that almost frays the flesh; that becomes the essence of a spastic coked-up dolphin ripping up through a cool ocean smeared with slick quicksilver sunlight.

"I- it's not that. I need more. I need more. I need _more_!" Madness; thighs splayed apart and upright and groping at her shoulders, her tits savored with clutching kneading hands.

Her lips _swallowed_ with mine.

Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, and there's simply no competition in stamina, is it? When her arm's wearying; when her fingers drag _mine_ between her thighs and it is endless, this perfection, tasting finally finally _finally_ those lips plump and sleek and the ravenous lubriciously _perfect_ juices bubbling up in her.

Dripping down; coiling over fingers and urged up along the wrist and it's not enough. It can never be enough. And orgasm after orgasm rears up shudders spatters coruscates between us and there's still only _one_ victor, isn't there?

Standing here in a garden of sexual _annihilation_.

I have not won the battle. I have lost in my perseverance.

"Oh, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Ran!" Kiss her, kiss her. Huge heavy breasts converge and collide and she's being mounted and there's only an invitation to more. To clasp together _those_ mouths in a delicious vertical smile and legs are outstretched. Thighs weld together, cleave into that slapping wet appulse. Wilt and spring back and it's to bleed together. To know the juices while they blend into a perfect _delirium_ in body and spirit and soul conveyed through the flesh.

Grind together. Feel her fingers laced with mine; know even the toes in their curl and prickle and whisper against my hips. Boil and melt and _bleed_ together. Chests heave and spines arch and I am become her and she is become me and those boundaries are just _imploding_. For an instant, there's a union perfecter than anything.

Ah! Ah! Ah! It's here! It's here!

And she has the fucking temerity to plead for it to end at that instant when you've finally _captured_ that sainted epiphany; _one_ second one _word_ from the poetry that will perhaps illustrate the Ultimate Divine Wisdom.

Or maybe a fantastic curry recipe. Whichever. It'll be incredible.

"C-can't take it anymore! A-Ayuumi!" Squealing it. Falling back and boneless and it would be death if it weren't for her chest's regular rise and fall. There's no bliss in that masturbatory selfishness, even with another's body.

"Well, _fuck_." Because there is nothing more to be done, and this is just _deeply_ desperately unfair. But what else can you do but adore the maiden with your lips' adulation?

Kiss her, and kiss her.

"Gimme my candy." Still, still, her mother's daughter. So fucking deliriously _enchantingly_ narcissistic, so greedy, at this instant. What lovely avarice. Laugh and laugh and laugh with the clutch of powder tossed into her shoulder bag. "The money's where it always is." Before you must dress.

The night's path already defines itself in your eyes.


	3. Rasputin

Jander and saunter and bounce and mince and there's an _energy_ suffusing everything. The streets throb with it; a heat burbles and boils and heaves, even through the sticky chill that settles with the spring blaze's lifting in the moon's rise. It's beautiful, ain't it? Ah! Ah! Ah! Taste the moonlight in its sodden supersaturated silver. Its quicksilver settling on your shoulders; shimmering hotter than hot on bare skin lush and lambent with sweat. Twist and wheel through the throng in their grandiose figments of busyness, 'cause that's their _lives_.

The diner not forgotten; not even half-forgotten. It's just there. Another place. Another world. They haven't even _tasted_ it, have they? It's more than pathetic; and less, also. Ah, ah, ah, just the simple _ignorance_ in it. Now, _Goddess-chan_ would be a fantastic companion right about now. To know the long long lovely fingers and the _exactingly_ lililicious nails like talons in their rake on the skin and oiled silk against that hungry clutching flesh and _none_ of it really matters right now when you're in a bounce and pirouette.

Anyone could be here. It _is_ quite the city, ain't it? More than just a city. It's a fucking prefecture! It's thirty million or so crammed into a bloated heap of architectural cancer metastasizing even into the fucking ocean, and it doesn't matter at all. We're here; and we're here. The elemental truth is that unless you can rear up and taste the universe in its fullest scope while Anita Ward coos her carnal incantations into your ears from protean psilocybin clouds swaddling you in their velvet enormity, well, you only live in this _immediacy_. One and one or one and two or twenty or thirty but how can you aspire to know in _any_ way the endless multitudes?

And, damn, we might not _all look alike_ , but there's always the ambition to it. The ugly twisted penguin-suited silhouettes that stalk and rattle in their endless homogeneity. The fundamental _weirdness_ in this beautyless swarm; this throng that denies that casts away anything like humanity's scrawling convolutions in its total individuality. There is no individuality here; the ties and slacks and jackets are black and the shirts are white and crisply starched and all are absolutely _exactly_ alike in their every facet.

Even their heights; even their hair; even the compulsory thick-framed spectacles that hedge eyes that have long since cast away any pretension of anything you could call passion or even an _awareness_ of their lives. Their surroundings. They're just _there_.

The novelties are found only in the prepackaged. Quick rapping steps and the salaryman will slip into the porno shop and there will be the mandated browsing with mechanistic _necessity_ , peering at the shelves bristling with the sameness that is not even desired but simply what _is_. There's a resignation in this life.

'cause you've _arrived_ when you're in Tokyo. Or something. Or maybe you've just been granted a life sentence 'cause you've committed the irredeemable crime of being shit out of your parents' conjoined genes _here_ , and property in the countryside or in America or _wherever_ , well, you could never hope for that. Or _something_.

There's a porno shop, respectable and discreet even with its lurid fuchsia haze misting out in its great cradling warmthless glow across the dim faces staring at the shelves, tucked beside a twenty-four-hour convenience store, and some invisible rummy's leering at one of the vending machines that'll kick out a bit of facile amnesia for a few yen.

None of it means _anything_. Shuffle and wriggle and there're eyes, yeah, but there're never voices. Transfixed with the ass' plump clefted ripe-peach grace; adoring the voluptuous hips; _awed_ with the long long long bare legs and tits in their grandiose marshmallow Everest effusion quivering and trembling and quaking with an unconstrained violence upupupdowndowndown a whimsical flitting _convulsion_ with every quick strut on stilettos, and it doesn't matter at all.

The ambition isn't a word.

It's a _grope_.

A grope would definitely _not_ be in the interests of your arm's continued amicable marriage to your shoulder; and then your hand's to your arm. Not explicitly in that order, either. But it's painfully pitiful. Ease aboard the subway, the train, taste the supersaturated flesh-crushing appulsation in meat and bone and blood in their huge palpitating wet white-hot hunger, but it's never _that_. It's the selfishness; a bit of play-pretend prepackaged taboo tasted in another's violation.

In the hope that there'll be some impotent charmingly _refreshingly vulnerable_ whimper and mewl. It isn't for your fingers to be met with the woman's or the man's; it's to taste the skin in its bare frail exposure and there'll be no fuckin' recourse at all.

"Hey, asshole!" Yes, we are a culture of lovely and enchanting niceties, aren't we? But there is only one fundamental instinct when someone's hand grazes your ass. It's something very _impolite_ ; impoliteness begets impoliteness.

The shabu is only fuel for the sharp urgent _passion_ that no measure of politesse will throttle and force down down down with palms straining on its great shoulders like urging a bit of irrumatio on a silverback gorilla. Why bother stymieing _anything_?

The hands were firm; thick; and there's only incredulity with a deft wheel and hands are upraised and the street should clear or maybe the salarymen and office ladies should cohere into their respective ranks like queer street gangs, rasping cymbals and hunched shoulders and, fuck, why not even a little Michael Jackson?

Not only the Sharks and the Jets.

The fuckin' zombies.

"Wah! Oh, shit!" Because it's quick and decisive and it's a hand outstretched and it's clutching at a _very_ stern wrist and the guy's a sinuous rippling strength and there's a...

A _profoundly_ stupid Rhett Butler mustache on the lip.

"S-shit!" That demented gurgle; that high warble pitching down with that sonic ambivalence to something deeper and huskier and there are fingers clutching and cinching and it's not quite a brawl coalescing on the street, but it's only about a half-second from it.

"You! Kogorou, you asshole-"

"S-sorry about that, Ayumi- _chan_ \- hey!" A leg _almost_ swept under him.

Hafta sweep men off their feet, you know.

The stern black suit that advertises a dignity that can't even _dwell_ in that bastard's skin. Too damn muscular for his alcohol intake. Remarkable his liver hasn't just absconded to become George Jones' roommate in some miserable skid row haven for the liquor-abused.

"Damn you, Kogorou-"

"C'mon, Ayumi- _chan_. Don't be like that, huh? Hey!" A leg _caught_. Fingers firm and straining around an ankle cradled in the leather thong's taut groaning fabric. And now, now, there's an exercise in the balletic. His arm such a convenient anchor; an axis for the body's pivot, rising up up up and that would be a heel introduced to a jaw.

A sharp wet little _crunch_ ; a groan and the guy's not only fallen but _sprawled_.

"Good one." Wheezing up at me. "Good one. Oh, that hurts. That hurts a _shitload_ , Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Less than it should've." But there's still a bit of, what is it, exactly? Sentimentalism?

A hand jabbed down at him; taken with what could only be a stray dog's enthusiasm for the familiar fingers scented with the beloved fragrances.

"Mmm... Y'smell like pussy, you know, Ayumi- _chan_." Those forever liquor-bleary eyes; the smile captures the roguish and charming absolutely _despite_ the asshole it's layered on.

"You're such a fucking pig, Kogorou." The usual throng; a sense of awe in the enormous eyes.

Not the violence; not even the blood dribbling in a sticky ruby seam from a broken lip.

It's the _rupture_. It's what should be suddenly defiled. It's the predictable denied. It's preconception betrayed. And there's applause.

 _Ah! Ah! They must be making a movie!_

 _Isn't that Kogorou Mori-sensei?_

Shit.

 _Sensei_?

 _Ah! Mori-sensei! Mori-sensei!_

"Oh, hey, hey, all of you." And the moron's just so _studied_ in all of this. The posturing; the preening. Eyes in their multitudes, agawp and agape and simply _adoring_ him. Why? 'cause you recognize him from tee-vee.

It's not even the adulation; it's that visceral shock of cognitive dissonance. Is there a phrase _more delectable_ than that? Should condense it into one word; should twang from your lips like a Hank Williams symphonic.

 _Congitivedissonance_.

And this cognitivedissonance is the tee-vee persona, the sainted idol, it's seeing fucking _Abraham_ swaggering through Tel Aviv's downtown. They're our patron saints and our collective cultural sins, also. Our devils and our virtues at once. A _microcosm_ in a street of everything that's more than just fucked up here.

Applause. Applause. Palms slapped together with a frenzied crazed exuberance. The eyes are huge.

Kogorou's tongue lolling out like a parched tosa's.

"Ah, ah, you're too kind!" Palm slapped on his nape; his laughter _demented_ , that sawing huge syncopated hysteria.

 _Who's the girl with him?_

 _She must be an idol!_

 _I've never seen her before!_

 _Oh, oh, is she a karate idol?_

Are there Karate idols? Damn. But, well, why not just smile for the idiot throng. Yes, yes, yes, just leer and stare and that's a cellular firing squad snapping and pattering and chirruping like a gathering of brain-damaged squirrels. Just stand and peer at them and that would be a joint slipped from a pocket, tucked between my lips.

Heretical!

 _Oh, oh, oh, what brand is that?_

"I roll my own; only Thai tobacco, darlings." Cloying with just a _bit_ of Tibetan prescription, and there's a giggle coiling up through the lips. "C'mon, Kogorou. Don't we have _somewhere_ to be? We're filming a _love scene_ soon.

"You should all expect it in theaters!" Never, anyway. Maybe tee-vee. Whatever.

 _Ohh! A love scene?_

 _Wow! With her? Lucky guy._

 _Ew. He's totally old and junk._

There's a lankness in _everything_ ; well, everything but the hair that's evidently just wrought from boot polish now. Heavy and thick and shimmering black in the neon mist wreathing the streets, the slathering moonlight that ripples along the street steeping not in rain but just some ineffable unplaceable _dankness_ that spurts and slithers through every pebble every morsel every pothole and rupture and concrete slab.

"Where're we going, Ayumi- _chan_ \- hey, what _are_ you smoking?" The grass is, well, it's _divine_. That'd be the word. The only one; the perfect word.

"Well, we _were_ a-kung-fu-fightiiiin' _, right_ , Kogorou- _chan_? Maybe I thought I'd just drag ya someplace more private and keep beating the shit out of you." The familiar façade; Poirot's Café and the Detective Agency rearing over it. Mori Kogorou.

 _World-Famous Detective. International Rates Apply to Out-of-Country Work!_

"You _have_ international rates? International _contracts_?" The man's a buffoon; goddess, he is. But there's still just _something_. It's the mountainous shoulders the thick frame the simply _vertiginous_ proportions. It's a charm that couldn't even aspire to _skin-deep_.

It's one of those fantastical bits of trivia that're probably better called factoids. They're not real; they're really really _really_ not. But it's gratifying to imagine that they _could_ be. That you're sheathed in microbes and bits of skin cells that haven't quite sloughed away or been brushed from your flesh in such _density_ such bulk that if you you _you_ , the actual _you_ , were to melt away evaporate in an instant, it'd be like that vanishingly _tiny_ interval when a water balloon's burst in time-lapse.

It _preserves_ your silhouette.

If time's passage could be suspended for you alone, you'd never really _vanish_.

His charm lies at approximately that depth. But it's an animal, a basal, a little-girl crush thing. It's still the simple astonishment in peering up at a man that's not your dad and savoring the broad thick jaw the firm chiseled dimensions the _hardness_ in the body the quick garrulous smile the endless preening for even an eight-year-old.

Yeah. It's time's ricochet. It's a throb from a distant place; from another age. It's tasting the familiarity in the sharply craning corridors it's the staircase _twisting_ your shoulders closer. Knowing a height that's at least _closer_ to his.

Glance down at the eyes; still about a half-foot behind and behind you and it's a pull and a tug and a twist and it's the wrist's warmth. The hall's wreathed in grass, treacly and wet and soft and _delicious_. You could coalesce it in jelly and smear it on toast and _that_ would just be perfection.

"Hey, hey, Ayumi- _chan_ , c'mon-"

"Don't _Ayumi-chan_ me, y'pig. You groped my ass; then you had your hands about a half-inch from my tits, didn't you?"

"In my defense, they're _really_ big-"

"You are _such_ an asshole." But there's almost affection in it. "You should be grateful to me, Kogorou- _san_. After all, if you'd felt up some chick who wasn't just _delighted_ to have a real live authentic celeb's hands on her ass, you'd probably be feasting on donburi at the local lockup 'til one of the Liquors took pity on _your_ ass and bailed you out.

" _If_ they bothered. Y'know, you're always just so _lucky_ no one notices that you're _deliberately_ such an irredeemable fuck up. Are you that good of a detective?" And now, now, the joint's being plucked from _my_ lips.

"What're you smoking, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"You _know_ what it is."

Eyes narrowing; a long lingering _snuffle_ like a puppy introducing itself.

"Whoa, is this pot-"

"It's grass. With just a _kiiisss_ of Tibetan-"

"Whoa, it's _strong_. It's _very_ strong." Nostrils crinkling.

"What're you, a six-year-old girl, Kogorou? Ah, right, right, _right_. You're more about torturing your liver than, ah, _expanding_ your mind." Fingers splayed, hands apart akimbo. "Anything happenin', Kogorou- _chan_?"

"Hey, hey, no respect for your elders?" Is that real indignation, or just the breed that's as plastic as everything else about the guy?

"What kind of respectable elder has his hand knuckles-deep in a girl's plush lush ass without even a simple _hey_ -"

"All right, all right." At least he's _agreeable_. "Got me there, Ayumi- _chan_. So, ah, what brings ya to the neighborhood?"

"Boredom." A quirk and a glint in the eyes. "Y'know, the Blacks are _definitely_ starting to bore me. There's just nothing to do in this city anymore. Deal a little; steal a little; stir up some shit once or twice a month but mostly, Kogorou- _tan_?"

"Hey, hey-"

"It's waitin' around. But something just fell into my _lap_."

"A big deal?"

"Not unless you can deal with the divine. It's just... Ah, y'wouldn't understand-"

"Hey, honey? Are you coming back? Weren't you just going to get some cigarettes- oh, it's you, Ayumi." And isn't _this_ lovely? Craning around the door. The word is _tousled_.

Well, maybe disheveled. Whatever. Not too terribly attached to _one_ bit of rumpling in the language's geographies. The eyes are familiar; brutal and sharp and _vulpine_ behind the glasses poised in their shimmering wicked promise on the fine regal nose. The lips're luscious, lavish, _swollen_ ; ornamenting with a few lambent bits of pointillism in rouge, stippled away with kisses or something that you could probably see in a finer relief if you carved off his pants.

"So, ah, _why_ are you with my wayward husband?" The smile isn't _warm_ ; there's no warmth in that face. Enticement; provocation. Oh, yeah. "And what is _that_ you're smoking? Something _illegal_ , I'm sure." The sigh long-suffering. An inkling of creamy soft shoulders; the lean muscular grace in confluence with uninterrupted sinuous curvaceous _beauty_. She's gorgeous. A goddess.

The hair's _black_. Something almost unreal; an authenticity in better-living-through-chemistry.

"Well, I thought it'd be a fine chaser to Kogorou- _tan_ 's little misdemeanor-"

"What did you _do_ , Kogorou?" And there is the harridan's well-rehearsed _wrath_ ; the brows furrowing, gathering in a likeness of a demented well-plucked caterpillar.

"It's- it's nothing, honey-"

"He decided to have a little mince around chikan laws-"

"Oh, _what_ is wrong with you, Kogorou? You're swine; you really are. There's just no hope for this man, you know, Ayumi. Why don't you come in? I have some tea on."

"Oh, h-honey, c'mon! Eri- _chan_ , let's- let's talk about this." How _ingratiating_ he is; honeyed and adoring and _slavish_. Adorable. The joint's exhausted, little more than ash, its dregs hucked away with a quick flick of the fingers into a fragrant mote tucked against a wall. The door's slipped open.

And a palm print ornaments his cheek with one of Eri's arm's stroke in a quick brutal _crash_.

"You piece of _shit_. I fucking _told_ you to stop doing shit like that!" A finger upraised. "How _dare_ you? You're fucking _lucky_ it was someone you knew. You act like a stray dog, Kogorou-"

"Honey, honey, honey, it was an honest misunderstanding!" The apartment's _steeped_ in sex; in lust's heavy heady sodden _oppressive_ gradations. Perfume in flesh; lavish sumptuous carnalities that slop over the nostrils, tattoo themselves on every scent.

Eyes flit along the, ah, evidentiary trail.

Chairs toppled.

Cushions slumped like the dead in their forlorn repose away from the sofa that's now brandishing a _very_ deep and thick and lucent sheen smeared over the fabric. The desk's not been cleared with Ran's vigilant ministrations but only a hand swept across the beer cans in their stale roosting multitudes that now ornament the floor in a sticky rank mist like piss.

"Whoa." Peer to the left and right and even the hat rack's been felled like a bargain-basement sequoia. "You two were, ah, reconciling, huh, Eri- _sensei_ -"

"Just call me _Eri_ , Ayumi- _chan_." How garrulous she is; how accommodating. How delectably fucking _bottomless_. One of his dress shirts draped in a protean fall over the slim shoulders, half-open, her tits' heavy delicious escarpment flaring up; her trim belly exposed now. The pussy's absolutely bare but for a fine seam stitched over the mound; lips still half-opened, drooling a sticky satin tendril over a thigh. "Ah, it's still leaking out of me, Kogorou."

"What a _slovenly_ lover. Not even offering to clean it out of you, Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"Mmm... I can take _that_. Why don't you pour our guest a bit of tea, Kogorou?" While her fingers, fine, fine, oh so fine, well-trimmed and lacquered in verdigris, creep and wend up up up along cheeks and settle into my hair.

Hers oh so _black_.

"You dyed your hair, Eri- _chenchei_." Close; closer than close.

Pungent with wine and cum.

"Uh- _huh_. It just occurred to me. It's always _been_ black." A distant chink and rattle and there's more than a bit of sullen muttering, also.

And still politely _subdued_.

"Really? I guess that's _true_ , isn't it? _That_ hair is black. So, ah, it grayed _that_ soon?"

"Courtesy of a certain narcoleptic detective." Lips quirking; fingers _straining_ now. "Oh, but you smell... Delicious, Ayumi. I wouldn't like to be as sleazy as _that man_ ," how jovial she is in her half-drunk cooing, steeping in carnality's endless burbling frenzy, "But, ah...

"What _is it_ about you?"

"Y'mean, 'side from these _huge_ tits and this body?"

"Mmm. There's your face. You know, I can barely believe that I've known you for _this_ long. You almost make me feel old."

"Oh, _perish_ the thought, Eri- _chenchei_. I'm just precocious." And _those_ are. Oh, yeah. Heaving up up up with the spine's arch. Heights in perfect convergence; the heels slipped off, bare feet against bare feet. A sigh; a shiver.

Flesh upon flesh.

Skin against skin.

I am become lust, because this is my essence. Thighs slipped apart and that would be a bare knee easing closer, and closer, and closer. Subtlety not just abandoned but tossed through a shredder and littered through the warm air like confetti.

Adorn yourself in it.

"There's something _about_ you tonight, y'know, Ayumi."

"Ran said that, also-"

"You saw my daughter? She won't call, you know. She's such a _petulant_ girl. Do you think you could give her a message?"

"If I'd like to have it tattooed into my liver with one of her roundhouses, anyway." A shapely thigh eased _up_. A chorus girl's high-kick in a very very _very_ patient slow-motion; _ground_ against me. A gasp.

A shiver.

"You're not even wearing _panties_ ; you're drenched." Thank you, Queen of The Courtroom. Her eyes not _humongous_ with awe; just delightfully large.

The opium's not a weight on anything. Only another novel morsel of delirium, soft wet junk _kneaded_ like chili-sodden clay over every nerve.

"Uh- _huh_. I can see why _you_ have that huge salary, Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"Is that cum?"

"A _bit_." Giggling through the sticky slathering opium, the grass still hot in your throat. "Oh, goddess, maybe _more_ than just a bit. He was very nice-"

"Then I know you're not talking about little _Conan_ -"

"Mmm. Not so little now."

"What a little _prick_. I'm just glad to know that my daughter never really believed _anything_ about him. Mmm... Come here, Little Ayumi- _tan_. You look so different, you know. And still the same. You were _always_ such a pretty girl-"

"Lolicon." A kiss. A kiss.

Rewarded for your truculence.

"Maybe." An admission in breath _hot_ and sticky and _wet_ across an ear now; wafting, curling like mist teased with animate wind. Nails _prickle_ at bare shoulders. "Oh, _look_ at this body. This isn't a body that would excite a lolicon-"

"You still remember me as a little girl, Er- _chenchei_. I can still do _the voice_ -"

"It scares me how _wet_ that makes me." Almost _convulsive_ with it. "Mmm... What about that little Conan brat? Or should I say, _Shin'ichi_ -"

"Whatever. He's fine. Oblivious, as always, y'know, Eri-honey-"

"Oh, I _like_ that one." Kiss. Kiss. Slowly, slowly, it's less one or two or three discrete little pecks and more an endless _continuity_ in the lips' languid flow together. Pouring like honey gathering in a seashell, ploddingly, _patiently_ , and with nothing you could ever hope to call restraint.

It's instant-onset orgasm; it's an electricity that ripples and thrashes and throbs up and down every nerve. That bloats the blood in its veins and arteries and every lovely little corpuscle simply _explodes_ , chilled to ice and then pummeled with a sledgehammer vaster than a 747.

Soft.

Wet.

Plump.

"You taste like _cum_ , Eri- _honey_ -"

"So d'you."

"And wine."

"And _you_ taste like grass." Tongues slip together again, and again, and again, and her hands are an exercise in hypocrisy. No more delicate, no more _reserved_ , than Kogorou's. But what domestic bliss _this_ is; fingertips tease with an elegance that no whimsical groper could ever aspire to capture.

Slipping under the top's taut elastic hem along my belly.

"Feel this _skin_ ; this firm muscle. You have the most _amazing_ body, Ayumi." Lauding. Adoring.

"From the exercise goddess _herself_ -"

"Mmm. I do try. You know, I've been letting myself go-"

"Oh, only _four_ hours at your gym every night?"

"Maybe three." Another kiss. Oh so ironical.

Can a kiss be ironical?

"Oh, _wow_!" Kogorou is a moron.

He is.

The word is _mongoloid_.

The eyes huge and faintly _bursting_ in their raw red-trimmed immensity from the sockets' very _boundaries_. Teacups cradled on the palms. Such an obedient servant. Even stooping to obey; the cups rattle with a soft little chink on the desk's heavy hardwood.

"Lookit _that_ -"

"Kogorou, honey, why don't you just sit down before you have a stroke?" Eri's admonition _more_ than syrupy. But it's cyanide-laced, pungent with delicious sweet mortality in almonds.

"I'd _love_ to have a stroke; maybe five or ten right about now." Haw haw haw. He's an idiot. But he's a _charming_ idiot. "Oh, oh, _oh_." And it _is_ very generous, bloating up through his slacks. A straining suggestion that you could probably invite Barnum and Bailey to perform there.

Palms on his knees.

"You are _such_ a pig, Kogorou. You really are. You're one of the most _disgusting_ men I've ever met. And that's quite a few of them." And still, still, never that word that consecrates an absolute _rupture_ in this rancor.

Divorce.

Oh, Tammy Wynette.

"Oh, that's why you love me, Eri- _tan_. You know that." While he's reclining; while one leg's crossed over another. "I _love_ watchin' girls make out-"

"Disgusting, right, Ayumi? Just _disgusting_." The voice heavy and husky and, well...

"Hell, _I_ love watchin' girls make out, too, Eri-"

"But you _are_ a girl. It's different for us. But you were saying something about cleaning me up?" Oh, oh, _oh_.

"Uhhhh- _huuuuuh_. Some _very_ well-built half-Arab guy, oh, oh, his cock was like a Coca-Cola bottle-"

"What the hell! That can't be real!" Kogorou about a half-second from a stroke.

"Not one of the _huge_ ones. Even _I'm_ not that, ah, _talented_. The glass one. Dumbass." Head shaken with a slow lingering bit of recrimination.

"Hey, be respectful with your elders, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"I'll be respectful with elders that haven't groped me publicly and once asked me to piss in their mouths-"

"Hey, hey, hey! That- that was supposed to be _private_ , you know, Ayumi- _chan_. It- it was just once, Eri. I'm serious." Hands upraised like the planet's most anemic meat-shield; fingers fanned out and appeasing to the dark divinity.

"Oh, _I'm sure_ , Kogorou. Weren't you the one who told me it was only _once_ you wanted to be- what was it? Your-"

"Honey-toilet, right?" Cooing at Eri with a mischievous zeal. "C'mon; he's a freak. There's kind of an _asset_ in that-"

"Well, he _did_ get cut for me. I'll concede that. I'm _very_ happy with the results. Not too happy that evidently _you_ were the first after he recovered from the surgery." But there's no wrath for beauty. It's humanity's cruel subjectivity.

Eri's hands.

Her palms clamped on my belly now.

Fingertips prickling at the skin.

"Ngn... I guess that's right, huh, _Eri-chenchei_? In my defense, I was _very_ horny and he was _very_ high from the painkillers. I don't think he even knew what he was doing. He kept calling me Yoko- _chan_. I was cool with it." But there's still the judgment.

Her eyes darkening.

"Oh, that's just _sick_ , Kogorou. _Yoko-chan_ -"

"Hey, hey, hey! Why is this about _me_? Weren't- weren't you two having a nice time? What about this great guy with the coke-bottle dick-"

"I haven't forgotten the _Yoko_ thing, Kogorou. Not by _any_ means." Eri's voice is a delicious bit of sonic schizophrenia. Cruelty embodied for him; oh so achingly _syrupy_ for me. A mom voice.

A nymphomaniac mom voice. Still a mom voice.

"But what about this boy, Ayumi? Boy _friend_?"

"Nah. I already _have_ too many boyfriends that disappoint. Just... A guy. I don't know. But he _was_ very obliging. So sweet. A _little_ pathetic."

"Oh, aren't they _all_." Eri's murmur the familiar long-suffering femininity. It's our ordeal as women, isn't it? It's a man's man's man's world.

Well, an asshole's world, anyway.

"Oh, but what about this _boy_?"

"Lovely; luscious. And he was _very_ obliging. He wouldn't slap me-"

"Oh, that's just _disgraceful_. A man who won't slap a woman who _asks_? But I'm sure he would if she didn't-"

"Nah. I don't think so. Just _too_ gentle. He _exploded_ in me when he let his hands slip around my neck, though."

"This neck?" Ah, ah, _ah_. Her hands.

Her oh so _long_ graceful fingers.

Slithering.

Lacing.

A _squeeze_.

And that would be the spine simply _melting_ ; more than melting. An act of sublimation. Ice does not become water; ice becomes steam. A heaving _breath_ cantering up through the chest and inflaming the breast and _pluming_ from the lips, bubbling hot over her cheeks. There are no words; there is nothing but a sodden frenzy gathering spearing between your thighs. A tremor that dies a stillborn death; toes quiver, wet on the cool tile floor.

"Ahhh-"

" _Exactly_. You know _exactly_ how I love it, don't you, Ayumi?" Closer. And closer. And closer. Her lips not even lavishing _mine_ with a kiss but that achingly dazzlingly deliberate _graze_. A brush. Once, and again.

And then again.

There's a will to rear up; your strength's every _bit_ is heaved into it, and it doesn't fuckin' matter at all, 'cause that's exactly the point. Ah! You understand, of course. It isn't the junk; it isn't the Tibetan; it isn't the grass. It's a weakness that's more fundamental than that. She is the predator. She is not the tigress; she is the polar bear flayed of the surplus fat and fur and she is sleek and lean and there is still the wisdom in being the planet's _greatest_ predator.

All others grovel at her feet. Those fine feet whose nails shimmer in verdigris, also. Perfectly pedicured.

A squeeze.

Motes pop and sputter like shrapnel littering your eyes with porous bits of darkness. There is breathlessness; _more_ than just breathlessness. It shrivels and it was ultimately never there, anyway. It's a negative being, twisting recursive around itself a great candy-hued ouroboros that _swallows_ itself down down down 'til it just _melts_ off into a fleeting little mist perfumed with marshmallow.

A whimper from the throat.

Lips quiver.

"A-ah, Eri-"

"Now, tell me about the boy." Another squeeze. Every bit of strain wilts; the shoulders become overwatered gelatin and the knees are evaporating and the spine is for the mind to tumble back back back to some primordial age when even organelles were a bit of a grandiose ambition.

"H-he was so nice. He and Ran and- and some waitress chick, I dunno, Miyuki, maybe... But, mmm... He ate it out of my pussy. He wouldn't slap me; I told him he could go to hell unless he did _that_ , the pussy-"

"And he did? His cum? Someone else's-"

"Oh, there must've been at _least_ someone else's. Maybe Mitsuhiko's or Conan's or... Whatever." Dreamy and delirious. Gurgling it.

"You are _so_ slutty. I love it. I love it. Mmm..."

"How's Yukiko- _taaan_ -"

"Shhh. Shhh. Don't be _indecent_." While our universes converge and collide and _crunch_ together. "You don't meet many men who're willing to lick their own cum out of a woman-"

"It's not fair. You'll drink theirs-"

"And they'll eat your pussy, also." Another kiss. Another. "Why don't you lick _mine_?"

" _Yuck_. Kogorou's always _reeking_ of whiskey-"

"How about I phrase it _another_ way?" And there is a slap. Well, it's a slap in the way that a neutron bomb is a firecracker. It's one fundamental _principle_. And that's their likeness' fullest dimension. It's thunder in your ears.

It's probably at least one or two brain cells sacrificed to the cause.

It's _orgasm_.

Explosive.

Convulsive.

 _Implosive_.

It's the universe rattling through your senses and it's her hand still there.

"A-ah, ah-"

"How about I phrase it _another_ way-"

"O-oh, oh, oh, I don't know if I understand still, Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"Get on your knees, slut. You _love_ this, don't you?" Oh, yes, yes, yes.

That word.

The _eyes_.

An intimacy; a subjectivity in the simple _closeness_. In time and space and simple human proportion warping themselves beyond even the tiniest _glint_ of reality. In her eyes burgeoning huge, huge, huger. Vaster than the universe in their scope; in the lips _announcing_ every word not only in voice but in immense napalm columns that rear up and fashion their commands in scrawling cuneiform.

I am awed with this.

With the slap.

Again and again and again and every _stroke_ every _stripe_ the pain's every _morsel_ simply twists and transmutes itself, iron into gold, into something preciouser than gold, ah... Maybe lanthanides? Who cares? But it's that; and it's even _more_ still. Burbling and throbbing in a great and succulent cauldron and spilling down.

Down.

Down.

"On your knees. I see my daughter gave you a pressure knot; or at least a _bit_ of your hair, anyway. You should really have it in a braid. Or pigtails."

"It's good like that, isn't it? For a handlebar-"

"I like _two_." On your knees.

 _Falling_. Still arrested. But with the hair alone and it's a sudden violent brutal _yank_ ; her hand on my neck her fingers twisted through the thick lavish black and there's an intensity in it that no modest middling little _boy_ could ever hope to capture.

A _crack_ on the tiles.

"E-Eri- _tan_ -"

"I can see it in your eyes, you know, Ayumi? I'm a little amazed. I was a little tired after Kogorou went out; that sort of... Of sexual _coma_ that overtakes me, you know. And suddenly, suddenly, _suddenly_ ," it's junk-sickness' essence; it is. It's for the eyes to _alight_ , ah, ha ha ha, this delectable bit of poetry, on a syringe _bloated_ with the most sumptuous most _purified_ heroin. For the veins to tremble and _twang_ with expectation. "I needed it.

"Needed more. And not the cervix-pounding with Kogorou. He's not very gentle. I didn't want to be on my back; I didn't even want _him_ on _his_ back. I want you. What _is_ this?"

"Magic-"

"I'm being _serious_ , you loopy slut." It's a delirium; a drunkenness in her hand. In her palm's merciless crack-crack-crack. Quick and sensuous and delicious.

"I- I am, also. I saw a _goddess_ , y'know, Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"You're really being serious, aren't you?" Peering down.

Down.

The dress shirt simply _shed_ like a moulting snake.

Her native flesh is lovelier still in its trim proportions; in the lean belly and round hips and the long long shapely legs the curvaceous perfection in her chest her shoulders in the strength and the softness in their entrancing collision.

The hair in bituminous hues slopping down her cheeks and shoulders and staining her spine, also, capturing _gorging_ itself on the lambent multifarious neon spurting up from the streets. The windows aren't open; there's a stillness in the air only disturbed with the ceiling fan with wooden limbs outstretched like a peg-legged tarantula whomping through the heavy mist.

Stirring, twisting, deforming.

Whipping at my cheeks.

She _glints_ with sweat; the tits in their heavy well-upturned definition and the nipples that've become raw and plump and hungry. A perfectly symmetrical sway with every twist and undulation.

"Magic, huh, Ayumi-"

" _Magic_."

"I want to break you. I feel _crazy_."

"Y'can't break _iron_ , you know."

"I know. I want to melt you down and drink you. But, right now? I want you to drink _me_. I'm all sloppy and fucked-up here; I'm _dripping_ with him. He came three times inside me. I thought I'd gotten it all out-"

"Never do, really." Shivering with it. With the _scent_ ; with her. "There's other cum in you, too, huh?"

"Of course. We have a _veery_ open relationship. You don't mind, right?"

"The more, the... Whatever." It's a gurgle. A meaningless senseless thing just _drooling_ from your lips; fingers steepled on her thighs, tasting the muscle in its firm writhing definition. Closer, and closer, and closer.

And it's _hunger_.

Eat eat eat eat eat!

"Come _on_ , Ayumi! Why, you haven't eaten tonight, right?"

"Mmm... Not _nearly_ enough-"

"Growing girls need protein."

"I think I'm done growing-"

"You need it to _keep_ that body, then." A sigh; a shiver. It's to know this in its intimacies, in its _nearness_. In the lips' thick luscious convergence, in their passage _apart_ with a wet yielding squelch. Not even with a touch. It's only the hips' _twist_ , easing closer.

Hands so so _so_ near.

"Uh-uh- _uh_." And her fingers' quick _yank_ in my hair.

Tongue lolling.

Breathless.

"I said you should _eat_ ; good girls don't eat with their fingers." Oh, oh, _oh_. A glance up; it can only be, the pressure knot's heavy gathered hair _jerked_. Twisted.

Pulled.

Adoring her eyes through the acreages of lashes in their inky effusion.

Tongue so so _so_ close. An awareness of that thin rheumy _exoticism_ ; that perfection that can only coalesce in a woman with a man. Something so so _so strange_. So rarefied and everyday, also. Ah, ah, ah. How _useless_ boys would be without _that_.

And without their few bits of banal magic that's still craved like cheap packaged curry.

The tip simply _brushed_ against her; a fleeting flicker of a second and it's already madness heaving and hot in the belly. Stomach taut with it; a giant's scalding fist fastened around the heart. His cum; others', also.

And Kogorou's there.

"Ah. Ah." Eyes' quick flit find purchase on _him_. He's there. The twisted fuck. But how could you ever entertain the hope the will to blame _anyone_ for this? It's a sight of Bill Clinton, isn't it? The slacks already around his ankles.

But the body definitely ain't American Presidential. It's lean and wiry and muscular. It's a perennial and endlessly rejuvenated sip at the fount of youthful quandary.

How in Bodhisattva's fat fucking face does anyone with a liquid diet and about a half-hour's exercise every _week_ preserve a body like _that_? The abs in their heavy chiseled relief when the tie's being tugged away from a thick bull neck.

The broad shoulders and the vast chest and the firmly set nipples and even the _cock_ is athletic; cut, finally, _finally_ , not that ugly jizz-drooling anteater. Swollen and straining up and it is a _very_ charismatic bit of meat, ain't it? Straining up through the fingers that're enthusiastically strangling it; raw and red and _hungry_.

Famished. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even a bit of shimmering juice beading at the head, the fine slit carved through the bloated helmeted glans.

"Well, well, _well_. Looks like _someone_ is excited, huh, Ayumi- _tan_?" Her voice is delirium, sloshing between the ears.

Invading them and almost _unfelt_ in the simple senses.

Oh, yeah, yeah, _yeah_.

"Uh-uh- _uh_. _You're_ not allowed to stroke that sweet nasty pussy." Oh, no, no, no. that's cruelty as fundamental as Eri is beautiful. Ah.

These _embodiments_.

She is wicked.

She is a saturnine deity.

If her daughter is Junoesque, then she is fucking _Kaliesque_. Sexual vampire with huge bristling fangs and curvaceous enticement still to the men and women that will tumble into her arms and succumb to the flaying fingers and while the meat is being ripped from your bones, well, how the hell can you even _hope_ to care, anyway?

In that bliss.

"W-what? Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"Do the voice, Ayumi." _Leering_ down; that heavy hot diabolic pitch. "I want to hear _the voice_ -"

"Ooooh... _That_ voice, Eri- _chenchei_?" And it is _that voice_. The eight-year-old girl voice. The Lolicon Special Voice.

The pitch that will rip through you in grandiose prismatic grades of cognitivedissonance. That will torment and terrorize the conscience and, well, who the fuck cares? It's all delicious play-pretend.

"I think you _loooove_ that voice a little too much, Eri- _chenchei_." While it's cooed and caressed with the tongue and... Well... "But Ayumi _really_ wants to lick Eri- _chenchei_ 's big grown-up pussy-"

"You're such a twisted bitch." And still, still, isn't that the sensation in being dragged closer, and closer? Her pussy not only in its delicious lust-dripping definition but _blurring_ and distending now, so so so near that anything more than the nebulous little vagaries just _dissolve_. Melt into nothing.

And _the voice_ is silenced mid-sentence.

"B-but, _Eri-chenchei_ , I want some _puuus-_ "

Yes.

Hungering.

Tongue captured.

"Y-yeah. Yeah. That's what _your_ tongue is good for, Ayumi- _tan_. Not just your weird twisted nonsense; your metaphysical babble." Oh, oh, but it's so _lovely_ for that, too, right? Right right right right _right_ , right? Yes.

Yes.

But this's lovelier than speech could ever really be.

More rewarding.

Smearing myself with her.

And now, now, twisted down, _staring_ up, it's some sumptuous act of Sapphic impersonation for the irrumator. Not delicate tongue-flitting grace; not the dewy sentimental wide-eyed fragile wilting lily elegances but something absolutely _brutal_.

An authenticity in hunger; in flesh's wicked wet slapping communion with flesh. In those lips swatted at mine; at what's less a perpendicular kiss and more an act of invasion that could only be invited.

 _Why, did I leave those borders open? Silly mmmmmeeeeeeee._

 _Ah, so long as you're here, how 'bout a little pillage and rapine? Hey, hey, where're you going?_

Ah.

Ah.

Flicker.

Flit.

 _Impale_ now.

Tongue outstretched and jaw cranked open and there's a rippling twisting pivot in her hips; heaving and rhythmic in her writhing. To be _ridden_ ; my face a balance for her, a sexual fulcrum, her pussy her _fuck_ ground against me and that's the only word.

It's not the hole not the lips not really even the pussy just the simple _deed_ crystallized into flesh and meat and blood and the lips are very very large but not _fulsomely_ ; thickly cloven well-defined in their dusky peach grace and the tongue is absolutely resolutely _outstretched_ for a moment.

A _wail_ when its passage reaches up up up into her and it's a twist and a quirk and now, now, the cum clotted in its huge thick intransigent wad can just be _pulled_ out. Dragged out. _Scraped_ from her.

"W-wah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Oh, fuck, fuck, you just made me come, you wicked little girl." Staring down down down. "You're barely clothed, and it's still so _naughty_ , you in those slutty street clothes. Or maybe streetwalker clothes."

"Uh-uh- _uh_." Voice thick with her; a hot straining gurgle from my neck. "It's _wicked_ to sell that, y'know. Against my moral code. I want to touch-"

"No, no, _no_! If you want to touch, then peel off that top. I'd love to admire those titties." Oh, yes, yes, yes. A pulsating syncopation in heart and soul and mind and fingers're slipping down to the neckline that cinches _strains_ cuts deep into the flesh and it's a pull a jerk and it's _down_.

Nipples popping up.

"W-wah!" That would be Kogorou about five or six seconds from more than just a prosaic stroke. "Wah. Oh, oh, that's so fucking _hot_. Why don't you let _me_ feed her a little something, huh, Eri, honey?" How _ingratiating_ the pig is.

"Ah... Uh-uh- _uh_ , Kogorou, honey. You're such a jackass. You know what I'll let you do? I'll let you _hold_ it back. I think you deserve some blue-balls once in awhile-"

"Once in _awhile_? Eri, honey, you know I can't _really_ get off unless I'm with you-"

"Yeah, sure." There's only disbelief. And her voice's just melting down again into a quavering thick groan when the tongue becomes lips, _cinching_ with wet spurting suction around that bloated swollen pearl that's just heaving up through its sheath.

Little Red Riding Wood- ah, _Hood_. Peering under her cowl with dark _roiling_ eyes, the hips a languorous and tantalizing sway, the steps with ass-swinging grace, creamy stockings _enameled_ in latex on her long long legs and six-inch stiletto bitch heels rapping along the trail.

Why, I hope there's not a big bad wolf with a cock that could impale a suckling pig in the forest with lupine appetites and a _clamoring_ for innocent skin!

Oh, that would be _dreadful_.

While Little Red Riding Hood's fingers creep across those lavish _grandiose_ breasts.

With hair blacker than black stirred like shifting shadow in the woods' gloom.

Mmm...

Oh, this basket filled with condoms and lube is just _so_ heavy.

Anyone?

Anyone?!

"Haaaah! Ah- ah, ah, you just- you hit me right _there_!" Eri's voice _explosive_ now from her chest. "O-oh, damn, damn, damn, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Yesh, Eri- _chenchei_? Oh, Ayumi's _so_ happy to lick your cum-drenched pussy." That delirious cognitivedissonance.

Collision of this febrile fiction of purity and the simple reality.

They were never _that_ distant.

A few hundred miles; not a fucking _ocean_.

"Ah... Ah..." Quaking; and suddenly simply falling _back_ and how serendipitous that he's there. Such a courtly figure; well, a pantless courtly figure. His cock jammed against her spine's graceful pitching arc. "A-ah, Kogorou, thanks. I was about to faint."

Lips falling together, also.

Tongues in their graceful sticky flit and flicker.

"Oh, oh, _oh_ , Kogorou, at least I taught you how to kiss like a girl." Adoring; giggly; crazed. The Queen of The Courtroom menace isn't quite _obliterated_ , but it's dimmed. Receding like a half-throttled candle.

"Ah, ah, Eri- _chan_." His voice thick and heavy and deep and pluming from the breast. "You know I love you best-"

"And everyone else a close second-"

"Not even _close_. But, well, who can't want a little something extra-"

" _Pig_." A lovely twisted marital-martial dance. The acrimony and the passion and the... Uh, agony and the ecstasy? Whatever.

Pussy, pussy, _pussy_.

It's crude, fine, but the cant's altogether lovelier _still_ , in mid-swoon, still cradled in his thick arms, and it's lovely, this confluence of the soft and feminine and firm and sinewy and masculine and there's still the fundamental _delicacy_ in his handsomeness that's the pretty-boy and not only the ugliness that's a wolf's brutal frenzy roiling through those dark evolutionary waters and percolating up in intoxicating _strangeness_ through those twisting irresistible instincts.

But this, _this_.

She is pure beauty.

A woman.

Kiss.

Lap.

Lave.

Tongue jabbing deeper than deep; mouth twisted open around her and still, still, there's only a _suction_ that absolutely defies credulity in its strength. The lips strain and flare with breath in negative. Sucking, sucking, sucking.

Cum and her juices honeyed and almost mucilaginous spurting down down down.

A lake introduced to a tornado.

"Ah- _hah_! Ah- _hah_!" Epiphany! Eureka! Or maybe only her scream burbling up from her huge heavy tits and they're quivering and quaking and _his_ body is oh so close now.

"How about it, Eri, honey?" He's beseeching; imploring. "Why can't we have a little fun-"

"Uh-uh-uh- _uh_. My pussy's raw and sore. But I _did_ think of something, you know, honey. A little reward for being... Ah, to hell with it. I should fucking _punish_ you, Kogorou. You sleazy bastard. You've got all the virtues of a stray dog.

"But that's the _problem_." Her fingers _there_ ; one hand cradling my cheek, and another laced around that thick monstrous thing rearing up beside a hip.

Ostentatious.

Plump and luscious.

"I can't get enough of you. I wanna watch you two."

Oh, oh, oh.

Exhibitionism.

Madness.

"You're serious? Eri, honey?" Is this _awe_ adorning his eyes? A warmth and fervor and... And is it with delusions of reconciliation?

 _Well, if I'd known this, we never would've separated!_

"Oh, _yes_." Exuberance; more than _that_.

 _Oh so excited. Just can't hide it._

Oh, ho, ho, ho.

Move _reaaaaallllll slow_ -

"Ah. Ah. Ah!" Another quiver; another coo. Wilting wilting wilting and there's a leaden heavy _blaze_ between your thighs. An infernal thing; a presence wrought in the most sacral junk. Consecrated heroin nestled in a stained glass syringe and dribbling its prismatic celestial essences from a platinum needle and the vein will soon be _riotous_ with it. Sloshing and sputtering and heaving and lunging and the breast can only inflame itself, flare higher higher hotter and hotter and hotter.

"C'mon, Ayumi. What do you think?" A _tug_ ; the fingers more than brutal now. And there's a dancer's elegance in her sinuous silhouette; in the proportions that simply melt and gather again, less distending and more a strange stop-motion time-lapse insanity. She is here; and then she is there. There're no intervening movements.

Delirious.

 _Pulled_ ; tongue still flailing like a palsied dachshund, and the only answer's eyes flaring open.

"Ah, ah, ah-"

"Well, little _Ayumi-tan_?"

"Mmm... I don't know. Mori- _san_ is just..." Slow long labored, the sigh that coils up from the breast. And another _yank_.

"Is just _what_ , Ayumi- _tan_?"

"So _sleazy_ -"

"Even better. I want to watch you rut like animals-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. I won't be happy without a _bit_ of Eri- _sensei_. After all, well, she _is_ so beautiful." Standing; an act of defiance without petulance.

Will without conviction. And surrender still stained with conviction.

Women are untroubled in their juxtapositions.

Rearing up; crush your lips to hers and eat and eat and eat and _smear_ her with, ah, her. A delirium; her blood gathered coaxed not out of the veins but simply its strange fugitive breath wafting out a great draft gathered and condensed and distilled to its essence and then simply _speared_ back into her mouth.

Pouring spurting rearing up on the tongue's quick mischievous flit.

Rob her breath.

Swallow it.

"I don't think you're in _any_ position to be making demands. Do you, Ayumi- _tan_? After all, you're just _such_ a lovely little girl. But that's what you are, you know? A little girl." There is strength without challenge, without _ambition_ of resistance.

Something sudden and lurching and violent and it could be war and it's definitely lovelier for it to be lust. Fingers laced around a wrist and that wrist is a conduit to a twist and a quirk and the elbow vanishes into the small of my back, the universe wheeling with a quick dramatic pirouette.

Lips _scald_ the nape, buried in hair's heavy thick effusion.

Tits against my back, flattening, plump and luscious and slathered with sweat.

"Do you _really_ think that? That you want to fight with _me_? We could, you know. It would be _very_ rough. I love it rough. Just like with Yukiko- _chan_. But she never wins. Mmm... When she has to explain the bruises, I wonder what it looks like." Deep; deeper than deep.

A _cavernous_ laughter, rich with a passion whose supremest kindest expression is in cruelty.

Love it.

"A-ah... Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"I want to watch. If I wanna play, then I'll play. But I want to see you being _fucked_." Pronounced _enunciated **caressed**_ with a violence that's a mortar crumping with a brush-flattening toll through the senses.

Knees cannot survive here.

Resistance, desultory or earnest, play-pretend or authentic, well, what the fuck do they even matter when there's a _command_ so urgent and so huge and so delicious?

"E-Eri-"

"That's right. _Both_ of you are going to be my fuck-toys tonight. I just... I feel _insane_. It's like a disease; I'm getting feverish." Ah, ah, ah.

Febrile madness.

Yes.

Stayin' alive.

Stayin' alive.

"Oh, _Eri-sensei_." Wheel around; the arms slacken and it's something _admitted_. Condescending to tolerate this. Laced _tight_ again over my hips; palms _clapped_ on the small of my back.

Fingers _prick_ at the ass' luscious flesh.

"Ah- ah, Eri-"

"Just _Eri_. Can the _sensei_ or little-girl _chenchei_ crap. Right now, I feel like I'm _very_ sick."

"Then we'll need to lower that fever, huh-"

"Oh, _no_. You'll need to _break_ it. I want it even hotter. Hotter and hotter and hotter. And that means _you're_ not allowed to be selfish, Kogorou. _You_ don't come 'til I _say_ you can come-"

"Hey, hey, Eri, honey, c'mon!" And there's a whine; the eyes are huge, huge, _humongous_. Lips rubbery with liquor and low expectations.

" _Kogorou_." Dangerous. "Don't make me call up that _lovely_ young pretty-boy from the café downstairs." Wickedness incarnate.

In the lips still flecked with rouge in calico whimsy; with the tongue's slow languid brush over e-ve-ry _inch_. The smile is an alligator's; the eyes spear the body.

"He'd be even better in a full blonde wig with that _delicious_ soft skin. I'd like to see _him_ take it deep, too, now that I think about it. Oooh! Let's have a vacation, Ayumi. What do you think." More than teasing.

A tease is merely a wry bit of cruelty; this is mischief in its _legal_ guise.

"Hey, hey, _hey_!" With Kogorou already about a half-second from implosion into a bit of gurgling crazed indignation. "What the hell-"

"Well, Ayumi? He'd be _so_ pretty with some nice makeup. Lingerie. A thin body like that makes a cock look like something out of fantasy-"

"Oh, oh, oh, Eri, I think _you_ need one, too. I'd want to be trapped between you two-"

"Oh, _that_ can be arranged. You know about _me_ , right?" Kiss kiss kiss kiss _kiss_. Madness; hot hotter than hot. "And I'd use that, too, if, ah..." The swallow is almost generational, an eternity in the spittle savored, dragged down down down like fine rarefied ruby porto. "I weren't _quite_ so out of it. I just want to lie back and..."

"Oooh, oooh, _ooooh_. The Goddess would be _very_ upset about that, you know, Eri." Pedagogical. I am blameless in this; it is not _my_ will, not _my_ agency. I am her prophet.

Do not blame _me_ for the sainted words.

"Ah, what?" With Kogorou oh so so so close. Presumptuous. That huge waggling thing jammed against a hip.

Without compunction. Without shame. A fucking stray dog. And there're fingers not to bat it away but just to _crush_ around the snout. Mine. Hers. Laced and intertwined and _very_ firm. A mutual zeal in pulsating pumping cruelty.

"W-wah-"

"Well, Kogorou, what is _this_?" Eri's eyes flitting down with a flair you could only call _contemptuous_. "I'm not one of your little sluts; neither is _she_. I think maybe she should just trample your face. But maybe later.

"Right now? I just want to touch touch _touch_ myself 'til I pass out-"

"Goddess- _chan_ will be _so_ pissed off about that." Singsong and teasing. But the answer's heresy in Eri's palm on a cheek.

Rigor and stricture and catechism _dissolve_.

"Do I _look_ like I give even half a fuck about whatever stoner fantasy you had? I'm going to have my _fun_. You're going to be a _good_ show for me. Or I'll see you out."

Wicked.

"Woof."

"What?" A fine flawlessly manicured brow arched with a cresting grace.

"I'm your doggy, Eri. So, ah, _woof_." Mischief; perfect mischief. "Wan wan wan." Palms gathered into paws, planted on my tits. A knowledge of their bulk in that luscious escarpment.

"Good _girl_." And that would be hair already sweat-matted and tousled _ruffled_ with a palm. "Now, ah, _where_... Ah... I want you two to fuck like animals on the desk. I think you can do that, right?

"Ah! No! No!" Epiphany. "On the coffee table. You're lighter than me; I know it can take _us_ , so, ah, it shouldn't be a problem. I want to be _close_." With a flourish of lean long elegant legs. _Folding_ down onto the sofa; one rears up crosses with a quick _plunge_ over another.

And her pussy's simply vanished.

Melted into that darkness.

That sainted delta that's not a bit of fantastical sentimental geography. Just black; absolutely impenetrably opaque and the players are now assembled and the skirt is a modest little obstacle to him. He's handsome.

It's an allure defined in wist.

In nostalgia.

Not my first.

Or my second.

Or even my fifth.

It's an object of fantasy, however; the fingers' hungering novel _forbidden_ meander between thighs already coalescing in their muscle and meat and fat and softness and firmness and that flesh feathered with the hair's fine taut curls and the instinct, instinct, raw and mad and frenzied and percolating from evolutionary bowels animating without thought in ignorance that is our innocence the hands.

Both of them at once. Writhing and heaving and swaying and there was _is_ always this instant. To know the office's dimensions in their intimacy. His fragrance in cologne's heavy spice and the liquor's faint familiar tang and the stale tea and even a woman, Ran, her scents flitting through its corridors and there is the fan's cool breath on the cheeks and it would be Kogorou or Conan or...

Or those moments when we are _all_ together. To be draped in those naïve gradations in hunger that will be emboldened ever more richly with every fantasy when the taboo the _forbidden_ is exhausted in its transgression.

Fingers and lips and hands.

A man's _thing_ , you understand.

Pulled.

Dragged nearer.

His lips subservient, because they are mine. Fingers lace through his hair. There is fantasy in knowing his eyes like _this_. Even with Eri's baleful forbidding aura _boiling_ with black hunger from the sofa, there's still a glint of those elusive perfections. Mouths slip together with wet delectation and there is a heat so _huge_ that sweat springs along the skin's every inch, stains you like a dolphin surfacing from scalding tropical waters in a great vaulting lunge.

Tongues coiling together; his body no longer so _huge_. But in the fantasies, you are not a little girl not the lolicon enticement but you are amongst the thoroughbreds that awe and torment in equal measure. Ran. Sonoko. _Eri_.

Yes.

You are amongst them, and long long legs bear your mouth _almost_ to his in height's equanimity. But not _quite_. Dwarfed in the heat and strength.

A prelude, you understand.

A _squelch_ ; Eri's fingers vanishing between the voluptuous thighs. The slender ankles tremble; the sleek taut calves _shiver_.

A breath from the heaving chest.

The eyes command behind lenses glinting translucent with a wicked judgment.

She is The Queen.

Oh, yes.

Tsaritsa.

We must serve.

"I want to see it _rough_ tonight. So rough I want to be worried that you'll both just break apart. I know _you_ love it like that, Ayumi. Let's see how much _he_ does with you." Quaver.

Fantasies are only _that_.

The reality's scalding lead dribbling from a primeval motorized archeopteryx's jaws whimsically teasing its beak through space and time and coaxing itself into being _here_ ; or maybe there; or maybe anywhere. It's a sudden burbling battering nerve-ripping _enormity_ coalescing there, hammering pummeling pounding raging raking _flaying_ through everything. Through life's fabric. It's heat wreathing your shoulders.

It's a _touch_.

And it's his fingers.

"Ah, Ayumi- _chan_ , that's all right, right?" With Kogorou's eyes about a half-second from Chernobyl. There's a tremor in the hands; there's a vulpine _quirk_ greeting him from my stare.

"What do _you_ think, Kogorou? We do it rough, right-"

"Y-yeah, but... I want-"

"Who's asking _her_? And who's asking _you_ , Kogorou? You two're my lust-slaves tonight. You, Kogorou? Because you're _such_ a worthless man and horrible farce of a husband and I just _can't_ stop adoring you for it. And you, Ayumi?

"Yeah. Pretty much because you're beautiful and you're here and you _love_ it. I want to get _wetter_ than wet over this. I want to fucking drown myself." It's an insanity. Perfect candid madness, more grandiose than even her daughter's. It's the Tsaritsa beside the Tsarevna, you know; there will never be any ambition for the daughter to surpass the mother until her strength and acumen and simple _conviction_ will displace the beauty upon her throne.

But they are both lovely; both _lovelier_ than lovely. Enchantress. This is the word. A wish a plea for Eri's more intricate draperies, for the suit's sharp angular allure for the stockings' clinging sweat-shimmering embrace for the lingerie in its every convolution. And still, still, ultimately, nakedness is human perfection.

This is our destiny, you understand. Our birthright. The Original Sin is not in deed but in awareness; in a sudden violent _crushing_ awareness of our nakedness, and our will to recoil away in shame and despair. Shame is sin.

Shamelessness is liberation. Kiss him, and kiss him, and it is a benediction, an ablution in meat. An act of absolution in his mouth's hungers. You do not simply _explode_ to those twisting wheeling convulsions. Oh, no, no, no.

There's a progression. Even with Eri's irritable wriggling, the seated flouncing, there's still that knowledge. It's a carnal perfection burbling up through the blood. Her fingers have already begun the serenade. It is musical, a woman's hands. Long and lovely and lissome digits splitting that luscious peach hunger and the thighs have slipped open now, because we are, of course, all friends here.

Right? You and I and... Ah, ah, ah, _all_ of his. His hands, also. One of them cradling a cheek; another whispering down down down not groping with crude sledgehammer indelicacy, not with idiot hunger, at one of my tits. Teasing the belly; a _gasp_ wrung from the chest with the first slow slow slow passage down along the stomach's convolutions.

"Damn, you're pretty, Ayumi- _chan_. Always a _little_ weird." Murmuring; muttering. Because, yes, yes, there is this shackling nonsense called _history_.

Yesterday is not today.

But how can you forget?

"Ah, ah, Kogorou, Kogorou." And there are glances at Eri; at our audience. The unreality in the reality. To know another's eyes not diverted with wheeling orgiastic sexual mayhem but simply riveted _fixed_ to you.

To every quirk; to the hips' every twist and cock. To the lips and mouths and it's an exercise in ritual algolagnia, maybe. In their marriage's potential its first stirrings in that sainted commitment battered and tortured but, well, the pain the despair the _disappointment_ have transmuted into taboo delectation. Into a rich heavy dessert to be savored in opprobrium and perversion and transgression and the fingers are slow slow slow oh so slow and patient a palm settling on one heavy breast.

 _Lifted_ ; heaved; tongue slipping out to flit and flicker in a fuchsia stripe across a nipple that's raw angry tormented flaring up in a thick pricking point. A delirium in all of this. Another hand _crumpling_ between the curvaceous thighs; spine already arching with the first long slow breath.

Teased; adored; _adorned_ in shimmering lusts. A finger dips down down down and rears up again. Not simply crudely impaling those sumptuous lips but wheeling and coiling around the periphery; a wet soft sigh and that delectable pearl that luscious glimpse of Little Red Riding Hood, well, it's already exploding through its shawl.

There is lust. There is hunger. This is all we are. Kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, and it's not an act of surrender to _Kogorou_. To Eri. To her every will and whim.

"Don't make me order you two. Just do it _rough_. However you want it." Oh, oh, _oh_.

"Y'know, Kogorou..." A finger rasped through the ridiculous and oh so _lovely_ Clark Gable mustache penciled along his lip. "You haven't done it _that_ way for awhile, have you?"

"Wha?" It's awe.

Or maybe just stupidity.

"Why are boys so _dumb_ , Eri?" An askance cast at her with a soft forlorn little sigh.

"Oh, I can't even _imagine_ , Ayumi. Must be their programming. Something evolutionary." We must laugh and laugh and laugh. It really _is_ just so fucking funny. So why bother with the delicacy now? Just _gnash_.

Gnaw.

Jaw on his cheek.

His chin.

Taste the stubble that's begun gathering.

The fine confluence of the pretty-boy and the masculine man; the skin bared because there's only the shirt to be slipped away and it's a meaningless thing. Hungering, hungering, and there's forever a wisdom of Eri's eyes _scalding_ your shoulders and your cheeks and your body's every inch, but what do they matter at all when her hands are plunged into that unleavened solipsism? That need for self-love.

What _narcissism_.

Her fingers _drenched_ now. Peeling huge honeyed threads up and away from the lips sodden still with cum. Fragrant with her, with him, with other men in their multitudes. With other women, also. Ah! As if it could be anything but almost painfully obvious. This syrupy confluence. This communion in the body.

His hands rougher now.

Pull at the tie; tear at the skin. Fingernails _gouge_ into his chest. There's a mounting aggression. A sense of rage without anger. A frenzy that's animal instinct in its strange jumbled stitch through the great and sublime skein that is humanity's affectations. Its pretensions. It is not that thought is novel to this beast; it is only the will to jabber in it the language that this creature understands. Glorious towers of narcissistic self-satisfaction consecrated to this delusion that it is ours alone.

Our supreme hubris.

And it melts off. There's still the will to _speak_ ; speak speak speak. Wan wan wan. Good little doggies. I will kiss him; kiss him 'til the lips bruise and, well, since you're already there, why not a sharp _nip_ on them?

"W-what the fuck, Ayumi?" 'cause blood's drawn.

Sticky and _hot_ on the tongue.

"Oh, you taste _delicious_ , Kogorou. C'mon. I'm not fine Baccarat crystal. Why doncha put your hands on me? Don't disappoint Eri. Well, any _more_ than you already do." Vamp with an urgent huge cruelty. Ran's guidance.

Find the lever.

The center.

 _Kick_ it. Not just a graceful swipe of the toes but a steel-toed chorus-girl _snap_ up up up and the eyes are inflamed and it's not _real_ rage. But, well, this isn't real love, either. Real lust. Oh, yes, yes, yes. His hand on my cheek.

A sharp sudden _crack_.

"That's how I love it, Kogorou. C'mon. I'll treat _you_ like the boy fuck-meat you are; treat _me_ like the slut I am. Let's do it hard. Rough. I don't want any of that weepy little-girl shit. Fuck you, Eri, if that's whatcha wanted." I'd tell her to read between the lines, but there's only one finger upraised at her, and the laughter that answers it is wickeder than any diablerie heaven and hell can conjure.

 _Oh, oh, oh! What a petulant girl!_

The eyes announce; the lips are still but for their rubbery tremor and twist.

And it's a pull.

A tug.

Fingers between his thighs; a jerk hungry and relentless and urgent and clamoring.

"C'mon, Kogorou. Hit me. Hit me even _harder_." The misgivings have vanished; they're gone, because his throat is _delectable_. And the teeth cinch _deep_ ; bite, bite, bite, and it's not something vampiric, not one of Dracula's mesmeric maidens whose corruption is their deepest innocence, but something near.

A gasp and heave and it's to be _lifted_. Pulled away and that is his body's most commanding core. The cock swollen and thick and _jabbed_ against my belly.

"Ah!" Giggling and giggling and cooing down at him and it's incredible. To be raised from your feet; to feel an arm wound 'round your hips, fingers spearing into your ass in its groping purchase. A weightlessness; a levitation. Ravenous.

Yes, yes, _yes_. Tear; tug; twist.

"You little whore-"

"Oh, I am. And you're my fuck-meat-"

"Goddammit, you drive me crazy, Ayumi. You're too young-"

"That's the best age." Kiss and kiss and that's a hand _slapped_ on a cheek; falling down down down to my throat and the fantasy is something _irreparably_ violent.

Crush me down on the table.

Professional wrestling; _emphatically_ insane shit with thrashing legs and there _are_ toes raking and ripping at the belly.

"Ah, ah, ah, Kogorou-"

"I'm going to _fuck_ you." And now, now, here we are. With Eri's fingers a wet urgent heaving sputter and spurt between her thighs. You can _feel_ the turbulence now.

 _So excited_.

Heave up again; rise and rise and _soar_.

Eight miles high and, well... It's falling falling _falling_ ; pulled down and not immediately _there_. His cock's definitely generous. Huge. That's the word. Not wilting with booze or age. And how fuckin' _incredible_ would he be totally sober?

Kiss him; vampire kisses, gnawing and gnashing at his cheek, chewing at the chin.

A snarl.

A roar.

It's just there and it's to be _impaled_. Shoved down on it, upturned with the hips' quirk and cock, and it's fucking _incredible_.

"Wah- hah!" It's there. The vast bloated bulk just _shouldering_ aside the lips in their sticky syrupy madness, and there's a tug and strain and it's _crushing_ deeper and deeper and deeper battering at the cervix at that strange inkling of another pair of lips _there_ in an instant. A squeal and a scream because the body is still an idiot, still painfully dazzlingly _eternally_ indifferent to the mind's cravings.

The algolagnia's redaction.

"Ah! Kogorou! Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_!" Palms on his shoulders; slapping and tearing and it's an irresistible invitation to more more more, dragging nails down his cheeks, up and down and up and down and just _down_ now, flaying into those broad mountains like rivers like streams like the rain's endless tearing caresses in time-lapse, a billion years in an instant.

Down and down and down and it's more than levitation now. It's soaring not only in his embrace but with legs wound around his hips and there's liberation now for the bastard, palm a wet _crack_ on a cheek, once and again.

And a hand on _his_ neck.

The cock's swollen; more than swollen with all of this. Pound and pummel and it's not just levitation now 'cause it's not legs failing but just a sudden shuddering orgasm and it's ripping up up through me with every huge lunging _spurt_. Once and again and again and it's a cadence that absolutely defies credulity surpasses anything like _ambivalence_.

Total perfection or maybe total ruination or maybe they don't matter at all. Orgasm, orgasm, a half-meaningless word in this wilting thrall, draped over him and just so fucking _exhausted_ in an instant with the burbling wet strands lacing and squelching up with tentacle frenzy stitching through every nerve through every vein.

I am _invaded_. The cock's humongous bloated bulk and I am invaded and it is a relentless intrusion and there is even a glint of unease in the body, in the awareness that it's maybe a bit _too_ huge, but who cares? Scraping ripping at every inch; the lips cannot find purchase but just _suction_ around him with natural phenomena without will and without agency at all.

Suddenly, suddenly, there isn't the pretty-boy frailty in _any_ grade but only the man flayed to an iron-hard core and there's nothing like delicacy. Only pure supersaturated violence, carnal and sodden and psychotic. A fugue-state _fuck_ ; he has melted down into something primeval, and now it's a force of nature, and it's not surrender to admit this.

Just an elemental realism. That _one_ dimension that heaves the male of the species in its broken dilapidated chromosomes over the female.

The muscle hard and thick and _straining_ now into relief that accentuates he's definitely either made a contract a blood compact a wicked first-born's soul arrangement with wicked divinities, or there _is_ a fucking gym subscription somewhere.

Sinewy; lean.

Thick slabs _crushed_ against me.

Flattening my tits.

Pour around him; a sense of some strange and ultimately futile intrusion. A mountain rearing up beneath a waterfall's froth and while there will be a seismic shudder and shiver and convulsion and the water will be _split_ in intervals of generations and ages and perhaps epochs, it is all ultimately vanity. The water will gouge away the mountain; it will be little more than the silt puddling silky in distant tributaries.

Novel lands forged in its ruin.

But the waterfall does not know when it's being split apart; _the flesh_ does. Heaving and huge and spasmodic and _crushing_ around him. Toes tremble and clench and there's an awareness of his body now in its every grade and twist and quirk. They slip along sweat-slathered skin in its vast sprawl; an awareness of a dewy desert in its every undulation, the craggy peaks and plunging pits and the skin is a sumptuous perfection. Humanity; humanity. Rise and fall and rise and fall and it's to be _taken_ , swallowed down, torn against him and there are hands akimbo _clapped_ on my hips.

To be little more than a fuck-toy; a sleeve; a hole. Pumping heaved skyward and _hammered_ down against him and voice has vanished. All of ours; an act of senseless primate regression in aggression. Eri's head not thrown back in an act of will alone.

The eyes refuse to blink, refuse to cast away from their awareness' ambit one _frame_ of this. There's nothing cinematic in it, however. Maybe it's desperately ugly. But it can't be. It's belief-beggaring in its beauty. It's a perfection; it's young flesh ground against a stern handsome man it's heavy soft tits quivering and quaking it's her nipples tugged and twisted and that lurid succulent fat in its effusion distended and almost _flattened_ between fingers and springing up again it's a gelatin-filled water balloon it's her hand between her thighs not only stroking not any mere petting but an act of what you could only _call_ self-abuse.

Slapping; wet hard hot intense and it's a sumptuous harmony with this. With his hips against mine; with my ass' palpable tremor at every plunge's nadir.

It's my _screaming_.

 _Ah! Ah! Ah!_

Stayin' alive.

Through the, ah, little deaths. Breath robbed from your chest your lungs _poisoned_ in their own oxygen dying dying dying and it's unreal, wilting over his shoulder knowing your jaw's crunch and rattle against the heavy muscle and it's _flaring_ up through the body with every instant.

Thighs quiver; muscle becomes gelatin and hardens again into a strength surpassing _anything_ else, wiry and twanging and brutal in its tension and these flanged voices break apart and reconverge again. _Crush_ him; twine around him and smother him and there's nothing like one discrete orgasm because one becomes another becomes another...

It isn't the familiar grace in its building, rearing up, a patient almost epochal thing, lives and lovers dwelling in each age, each nurturing its own novel architectures, peach-hued domes and great towers rearing up in tribute to this complacent gentle coalescing and then _thunder_ splits the sky and it melts away.

This is... Is uninterrupted assembly-line frenzy; is feasting at a fleshly buffet. A fistful here; a hand settles in something electrifying and legs can only spasm and thrash for a few seconds or maybe it's a few hours and eyes wheel and pivot and tumble up and fall back and there's some distant awareness of Eri and it ain't in geometry or geography or even sensation but only something selfish, both hands now, devouring akimbo, fingers whirling over her clitoris and three and four and an ambition to her complete fucking _hand_ splitting open her pussy.

Darkness and light and everything smeared in those reaching sticky vacillating shadows and the neon's sputter and it's huger and huger and huger a _wail_ from my lips and now, now, there _is_ my shoulders my ass everything slapped against the coffee table.

He's not even _human_ now. I'm not. I'm happy not to be. I'm happy to be an animal; I'm delighted to fall fall fall and it's an act of _surmounting_ , summiting humanity's pathetic self-inflicted boundaries and it's the mind burgeoning and it's the flesh bloating out it's an awareness a deep empathic thing with great tentacles coiling around the planet and across the universe.

Hold and cradle and _pull_ him closer, closer.

"You're driving me fucking crazy!" His voice a snarl; his eyes bestial.

"Good." A palm; once and again and again and not on the cheeks but the tits and it's something electrifying. No, no, no, nothing so _cliché_ ; it's planting your tongue on a bare cable it's tasting every flit and flicker of sensation simply transmute itself into a perfectly polarized extreme resolutely indifferent to grade and nuance.

Only bliss; nipples pulled and twisted with groping hands and the palm crashing down on wet skin and it's companion to Eri's every demented wriggling stroke and stripe and it's his fingers laced around my neck. _Biting_ into the flesh; it's a squeeze that heaves humongous onyx weals through reality. It's something deeper deeper deeper still.

It's Death's stalk and the knowledge that it doesn't even fucking matter while _you_ melt into that; while the hips rear up to greet every pump and plunge and now, now, it's just not fucking _fair_. Dragged out of me; whining whining whining what the fuck're you doing you fucking pussy what what what should I be calling you Ed- _chan_ now you sonofabitch I'll fucking murder you oh oh oh _thaaaaaat_ is just fucking incredible!

A _squelch_.

Wet and spattering and it's a fist driven into wet gelatin.

It's his full _sprawl_ crashing into my cervix.

It ripples up and reverberates into the belly. It's pain; it's bruising; it's _delirium_. Need it need it need it more and more and more.

"Ko- _chan_!" Squealing it. "Ko- _chan_! Fuck! F-fucking my cervix-"

"I _feel_ it." Veins and sinew in relief while sweat sweeps with theatrical negative-scratch definition along the cheeks. Heavy fat drops _patter_ down. "Feels like I'm gonna deep-throat you down there-"

"Dammit, why the fuck can't you?!" Like a fucking porno manga. _That_ would just be perfection. "You're too fuckin' big. I need it; more, more, more, more. Harder. Do me _harder_ , you fucking pussy-"

"You're such a twisted little bitch. How can a little girl like you be such a fuckin' animal?!" Snarling it.

"'cause I'm _not_ a little girl, you shitheaded old man- yah!" Beauty and perfection in that truculence; in its _coveted_ reward with a blow that's not just a teasing soft little _tap_ but the hand drawn back and the fingers fucking tattooed into my right jaw.

"Little sluts should respect their elders." An inferno in his eyes.

"I'd respect you if there were anything to respect, fuck-meat. D-do it harder. You're not any better than a boy. Just fuckin' _older_ \- aaaaah!" Because that's the moment for it to just...

 _Rush_ up.

Explode.

It's dynamite tossed into a bonfire.

His cock just _ground_ along that spongy thick flesh; that G-spot perfection; it's fantasy impromptu and _very_ impatient with it it's air on the G-string ha ha ha it's everything in that _one_ fucking key, that note, just hammered again and again and again and there're myths that there're African cultures that love Bach and air-conditioners because they both have regular rhythms, and who knows if that's even true, but _this_ is just too damn perfect _not_ to love.

Again and again and again; it's waves gathering together intensifying into a _rush_. They're collectively some twisting sexual tsunami, rearing up and not even breaking but just _heeaaaaaaaving_ themselves inland deeper and deeper and deeper because he's a selfish self-indulgent shitheaded old man but he is _also_ very very very fucking good and good fucking, also.

A _twist_ of the hips.

A cock of the wrist.

Legs no longer twined around his waist but dragged up over his shoulders and it's a weight an anchor to drag him back at the pump's furthest extreme a pendulous sweeping _crashing_ metronomic thing. Dragged away 'til the head's almost slipping from between those steeping sopping lips and _pulled_ back with an endlessly gathering momentum.

A _slap_.

Once and again and again.

Yeah, yeah, _yeah_!

Pummeling; crashing; _grinding_. Rearing up and dragging that huge bloated monstrous head along clamoring flesh and there's a will just to _wilt_. But that cannot be; no, no, no, even while your footprints should be ornamenting the ceiling in huge lurid greasy strokes. Slap one along a cheek; his lips are oh so obliging, also, a toe and then a second and third tugged into his mouth's hot slathering grace.

"A-ah, Ko- _chan_ , you worthless fuckin' husband-"

The answer's just _gurgling_.

A sharp sudden _spearing_ snap in teeth like fangs around the toes.

"Wah!"

"You're such a nasty little girl, aren't you? I can't get you pregnant." Ah, ah, ah, how fuckin' _ridiculous_. "So I think I'm gonna use _this_ hole." Oh, oh, oh, _fuck_.

Goddess, that's just depraved.

Twisted, flopping out across my belly, and there's insanity. Insanity; the most delectable breed. Legs thrash and kick and it's a perfection. To be perfected with this. Palms on my soles; and it's crushing falling closer, closer, closer.

Draped in hair that's never been captured in the pressure knot; heavy thick cables that squirm and swarm in slithering undulating sweat smears down your face obliterating sight for a fleeting instant and snatches of Eri can be captured still. A glint of the fingers simply _hammering_ between her thighs; splayed peeled split open and something _else_.

That magic urged into being, and it's the Goddess given guise. Ah, ah, ah, Goddess- _chan_.

Ah, ah, ah.

Throbbing Eurodisco cadence through the blood.

Ra-Ra-Ra-

Ah, ah, _ah_!

"Y-you're- the fuck, Ko- _chan_?!" Wailing because because because it's just _falling_ down now. Not the cock; nothing _that_ fucking deranged. But upheld on my soles, some demented twist and sway and it's a dancer's elegance.

Or a fucking judo-ka's, anyway. A _lap_ ; a kiss; fingers kneading toes and his mouth that ridiculous psychotic lolling Gene Simmons tongue slathering and slithering. Twisting and craning and finally just _slipping_ between the rises and falling down into that valley scrawling with sweat.

"Oh, you taste so fuckin' _good_ , Ayumi- _chan_. So fuckin' good." Esurient. That's the word; laving and flitting and... "Ah, ah, _ah_ , it's so sweet. I can taste your soap." No whisper of Ran's fingers.

Her hands.

Her lips and tongue.

What's the matter with a bit of father-daughter indirect kissing?

Quivering and cooing and it's just _imploding_ down down down. Opening with an ease that defies simple understanding. How can it be so perfectly _simple_? But there we are. No need even for fingers. The tongue's endless whirl and wheel and undulation wriggling and willing and squirming and it's to be _splayed_ open now with it.

"You're so loose an' sloppy down here-"

"Ah, ah, ah, Ko- _chan_ , you're such a piece of shit. Talkin' about a sweet innocent girl like that." And the punishment is reward; a palm _thundering_ on a cheek now. Trembling and cooing and quivering and more than anything it's _another_ with unassailable elegance with precision perfection at that one point and it's a serrated knife being slipped up through my spine and it's violence in its purest essence _roiling_ from my lips in a silent wet spurt _gagging_ on the pain's enormity with a man's hand a ridiculously _powerful_ man's strength.

 _Fuuuuck_.

Again.

Again.

Cracking slapping pounding pummeling.

"A-ah, you fucking _asshole_ , Ko- _chan_! You're such a worthless," Goddess, that _roar_ on my ass, "Fucking worthless man! That's all you are! That's all you'll ever fucking be! Stupid drunk son- ah!" Howl and heave and it's _humongous_ now.

Thick and _rippling_ through the hot sticky stagnant air, barely even tousled now in its heavy sodden aromas in sex in lust in Eri in him in _me_ in cum and pussy and it's the universe _my_ universe Goddess- _chan_ 's essence wheels and roils and bubbles and...

"Don't you _dare_ just jam that huge fucking thing up my aaaa-"

Because this is what must be done.

A palm on the spine; a hand poising it there and it's just...

There isn't quite _language_ to capture that. It is unnatural, yes, yes. Because a kiss is unnatural; because taking flight in an aluminum bird is unnatural.

Because these are lovely, also. Shivering and squalling and squealing and there isn't pain so much as simply _bulk_. An elemental hugeness racing up through that clenching pucker and it's fucking _enormous_. A man's probably, oh, fifty-fold as colossal the second it jabs there. Prods up and up and up and it's an animal a great broad-shouldered beast thundering through a narrow forest path and the scents are sweet and lavish and _heavy_ on the nostrils.

"K-Ko- _chan_. Ko- _chan_ -"

"Lick me. Lick me, Ayumi- _chan_." Eri, Eri, Eri, the voice, the hot heaving husky graveling _command_ from trembling spittle-slathered lips. And, ah, ha ha ha, it's been abandoned. This comfortable solipsism. But it's nothing so fucking _prosaic_ now. It's _huge_.

That glorious _queenly_ stalk spurting up from between her thighs. And Kogorou is still; at once, so wickedly brutally fucking _still_.

"E-Eri- _chan_?" His voice a thick heavy gurgle from behind me. The cock's simply throbbing; every pulse stirs that sloppy yammering craving place.

Still pinned under a palm; legs still thrashing and trembling and toes clenching and fingers ripping at my breast a poise like a seal some demented limbless animal on the table, spine arching and chest heaving and tits flattening sticky with sweat and _suctioned_ away from the sleek façade with every breath and it's there.

It's there. A delirious beautiful thing.

"Oh, Kogorou- _chan_ , don't feel so _bad_." Eri is diablerie personified; it is point of lassitude, a perfect insouciance in _this_. In a cock as huge as his; _huger_ still. The head's thicker, the frame broad and bloated and quavering and it's a fucking _cola can_. No simple graceful tapering bottle.

Monstrous.

 _This machine kills sissies._

Oh, yeah.

Kiss and kiss and kiss and and kiss and it's being offered without compunction, with only an urgent irresistible craving.

"S-since when can you do that? Since... Am I even _drunker_?" Reeling with it. Will this be Kogorou's passage to sobriety in simple _incredulity_?

"E-Eri- _chenchei_ ," how can the words _not_ just spring up from the lips with mischievous ebullience? "You've never introduced _Ko-chan_ to your scepter? But you're the _Queen_ -"

"I was _thinking_ about it. But we never played those kinds of games when we were living together; he's _such_ a neurotic guy-"

"Oh, Eri- _chan_ , it's so pretty! You've got the cutest lady-cock!" Ah, well, there we are. Kogorou's probably still drunk. As always. But that's candor. "If it's on a lady, it's a lady's _whatever_. I _love_ the ladies." There's a deliriously lovely _simple_ equanimity in it. "Oh, it's so pretty, Eri- _chan_. You've got the best lady-cock I've ever seen." He's a fuckin' moron, also.

Oh, well.

And it's just...

"S-stir me up, Goddess' sake, Ko- _chan_!" The pleas are huge and convulsive and _volcanic_ now, spurting up from the chest, from the throat. "Fuck my ass; fuck my ass; fuck my ass; fuck it 'til I can't even _sit_ tomorrow!" As if _that_ could even be an ambition.

Not when those rarefied words have been tasted.

Double _anything_.

With a dildo or a man or _both_ larger than he is.

Pumping.

Long lunging wet strokes and it's so so so lovely, being, well, not _quite_ force-fed, but that hungry trembling raw ruddy thing in fine satin skin's being jabbed against lips, and how can you not kiss kiss kiss kiss _kiss_.

Slathering tongue sloppy and slavering and a puppy's a fox's yes yes yes a kitsune, I am the kitsune, and fingers are being offered now, slithering around its heavy thick pulsating convolutions with _hers_ , also.

"Suck it suck it suck on me suck on me suck on it oh oh oh oh oh oh!" A stream-of-consciousness clamoring; her head's now absolutely authentically thrown back and it's not a trivial thing not a bit of cliché or hyperbole 'cause it's a sudden urgent violent _snap_ and without the flesh and bone it'd probably be settling near the desk now.

More than a kiss.

A squeeze.

A stroke; pulling and jerking and, ah, ha ha ha, every fucking cliché, and... And it's more more more than the language can even accommodate. I'd love love _love_ it elsewhere, but why not _here_ , also? Lick and lap and kiss and suckle and the head's so fucking _enormous_ it strains the jaw in its muscle and bone and it'd more than just _bruise_ my pussy.

Crushing against the palate; twisting along a cheek.

"Ah!" Her eyes crazed. There's a cesium-in-water quality in it; there's a madness that tears down along every nerve and takes root in that delirious febrile place between the thighs and churns and burbles and shudders and _explodes_ again.

Up up up.

Clenching around him.

"C-c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, make me _coooome_!" How can _anyone_ ignore that one? Beseeching them; commanding them. "Both of you. Both of you. Fuckin' _fill_ me; my ass and mouth. Fill _eeeverything_. Too bad there's not another one of you. I'd want you all to make me fucking airtight."

And there we are. The voice cresting the tongue like a profane Maria Callas, and I am not a soprano and it's a very very husky deep pitch suddenly with a guttural madness but the performance definitely commands a standing ovation.

The most earnest breed; fingers on my thighs biting bruising and _hers_ strong oh so strong laced under my arms and it's something fucking _incredible_.

Levitating between them.

Husband and wife reconciling _through_ me; mouth obligingly twisted open and the world is suddenly her hips in their soft curvaceousness her taut flat belly her grunts and snarls and his and it's his crunching pummeling slap-slap-slap against my ass and there's a moment's discovery in being absolutely _silenced_ when the gag-reflex fails and Eri's just _skewering_ me.

When they should be wriggling straining heaving so fucking _deep_ that they could just be conjoined my belly. Screams are muted and there's no longer anything like conscious control; somatic lapse and failure and if this were some science fiction spectacle there'd be klaxons wailing warbling _failure! failure! failure!_ totally fucking out of control.

This is...

Is perfection.

Cheeks swollen, straining with spittle in its bloated enormity.

And they're craning closer and closer and closer and with thighs wrenched open around his broad muscular hips that would be a fucking _kiss_. Husband and wife or separated or estranged or _whatever_ they are, and the universe distends and creamy motes swirl and whirl with the black and impenetrable when oxygen's just melting off with a ruby-cheeked _wheeze_ through my nostrils and it's Eri being dragged away again and Kogorou's huge wet slapping swatting stripes against my ass and it's...

A scream.

A collective huge _convulsion_.

It begins deep; deeper than deep.

His cock bloating and flaring vaster and vaster and the head is now a titanic distended helmet and its presence is companion to something _else_. A knowledge. In the sudden silence that is only the auditorium for a _roar_ that heaves up up up that _deafens_ like a firecracker tucked into your mouth.

 _Aaaaargh!_

Clenching around him, because it's there, also. Not coming but going and coming again and again and again and again and it's not only orgasm because an orgasm is something biological and this steeps into the flesh sops into the soul slops out into something so distant so evolutionary that your fucking great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents' whatever that fucking _Lucy_ is tasting it with eyes flaring open huge and trembling and _my_ mouth is cinched around Eri, suction that's nothing a machine could generate but hot and trembling vacuum.

Because I am the mediator for them; because his bliss spears up up up through me in those huge raking ripping threads ropy and sticky and bubbling and almost greets her tears at the flesh and it's not pouring from me because the tension is more more more than even _his_ body can countenance. Suddenly brutally still, luxuriating in the carnal near-amputation.

And it's here.

Hers.

Nails bite into my arms and there's a tension that's an absolute stillness; marble-perfect sleek shapely statuary in obsidian-maned grace and it's _exploding_ up up up something less pumped and more just _heaved_ through me.

Rushing down down down and if you don't swallow with a manic madness like a man with a hose stitched into his mouth you'll fucking _drown_.

And the cum in its treacly perfection's still racing up around her; gag and gurgle and wheeze and sticky creamy threads rear up and paint themselves through the sinuses spill from my nostrils become a parody mustache over my lip and dribble down down down _splatter_ on the coffee table and...

And there's a stillness.

Sudden.

Orgasm not receding but just a standing-wave mayhem, quivering and burbling and there there there always. Fucking. There.

Wilting down between them. Tension dies like a candle's last guttering vestiges and it's being eased oh so _slowly_ onto your shoulders on the floor between them, an anguish in his cock just _spurting_ out on satiny threads that trace a scalding smear over my ass. Nestled there; breast against breast; Kogorou's heavy barrel chest against my spine. Draped in their warmth and it's nothing parental; not lovers, no, no, no, because this isn't the point.

Cradling; adoring.

Lips slip together; on your back to be the palette for their exotic hues pouring together with playful recrimination quieted in simple _exhaustion_. Her chest falls heavy; his strength doesn't oppress but only enchants.

Kiss, kiss, kiss.

Tongues slip together; fingers intertwine.

Toes tremble.

And still, still, still, there's a bleary-eyed incredulity greeting one word that animates the world in its manic giddy whirl on its axis.

 _More_.

"S-sorry, Ayumi- _chan_. You're gonna need to find someone else." Even Eri's sublime nymphomania aghast with fingers weighing the slack bulk that's simply wilting back into her hips.

Damn.


	4. Eight Miles High

Oh, oh, oh, _woe_. Woe and grief and despair. Forced away now; cast out of another Paradise, and I am not Eve named Hawa and I am not corn, which the Indians call maize, but the joint steeping in wilting weeping heavy heady opium and grass gutters like a fucking candle in its wilting ruination and wax dribbles and enamels itself in a sticky smear over your cheeks the eyes _scalding_ with it in the neon mist. Step step step and there's a jaunt and jander and pirouette; twist and sway and it's a dancer's zeal an exuberance for the simple sensuous sublimity in this _being_. It's to be.

Ah! Ah! Ah! Taste the darkness in its endless _immensity_ ; throw aloft your hands and cradle the sky savor the lush flesh the fabric in velvet-Elvis obsidian. The _texture_ , you understand, yielding under groping fingers. To tear great _gobs_ from its tarry bulk and choke them down and there's an urgent elemental madness in all of it. The shudder and tremor that flare up up up through the body like an oil refinery's produce, huge belching infernal motes burbling from the stack.

I am become this. A simple fundamental _need_ for more. Ah, ah, this _word_. More. It's a delirium in this. A carnal hysteria; a somatic psychosis. It's one relentless refrain throbbing with a quick pumping dance-club cadence through you and a dance club'd be _fantastic_ if there were really even _one_ now. But it's nothing. The usual J-pop shit reverberating tinny through the stereo and what this flesh what this girl _needs_ is Studio 54.

Sentimentalism, I'm sure; as prosaic as any other. But a snowball'd be quite the delight this evening. You could heave yourself not into the heaps but the flesh liberated in its febrile craze, the madness bubbling up through every inch through the bare skin the nerves _shuddering_ with its merciless compunction-denuding caresses.

The talons slipped from their sheaths and laced and stitched through every bit of inhibition and there's a craving flowering up up up and it's another joint smeared with a bit of opiated delectation pluming creamy through the lungs and shoulders still graze and there's still the silent soul-numbed siren's song in better-living-through-chemistry vows forever unconsummated pluming from the shops from the clubs burbling with karaoke with beer with wine with sake with something harder than a fucking sledgehammer ground into your nape and through the brain stem but ah ah _ah_ it's never anything so, oh, _gratifying_.

It's forever the consumer, the prepackaged. Even another's music. Another to shrug off that cruelty named _responsibility_. An act of ritual self-annihilation. Is it 'cause we're Japanese, or 'cause we're just _consumers_? Hasn't the word _Japanese_ been banished? Global citizens, you understand; that banal unadventurous _efficiency_ that's the essence of the glass-enameled skyscraper whose steel ribs will never even be intuited in what could be artful relief 'til the hijacker's whimsy twists a 727 into a missile and rockets through the façade and in that moment _lies_ are lain bare.

Only to be mended again. We must uphold the lie. Eat and eat and _gorge_ yourself on the lie. Suck it down deep into the belly and feel it pour through the lungs and it becomes the blood and do you know what the lie is?

Ah! I forget. Everyone's forgotten. That's how _productive_ the Lie is. The Big Lie. It's laced itself through every nerve deep deep deep into the bone. Ah! How lovely a vision quest would be. It ain't every day a woman has herself a vision. Much less a vision quest. But this ain't it.

It's a bender. I know that it is. Ricocheting through the flesh. Hunger and thirst and wind and rain and it's a plea for more, more, more. It's a simple elemental need for _more_. It's something strange, to know the hunger that's a gouge torn with brutal poisoned talons through your belly. And appetite comes with eating in this; to swallow more more more is for the void to open further and further and further.

And you can only eat more, can't you? It's instinctive. It's evolutionary. It's a hunger for _all_ of them. For the beauties in their dark eyes; the hair like lacquered onyx swept in the familiar formulaic strokes along their cheeks. The skin that's not quite the perfect bleached-cream pallor that they crave in their paper-white fantasies but still with a _kiss_ of color.

Not mine; oh, oh, oh, not mine. Alabaster without the sun's hungering ripping caresses. And what does it matter at all? Wheel and twist and eyes just settle on a figure that's steeped in that sainted word. Cognitivedissonance.

Whuh?

"Hey, Ran! Ran! I thought you'd be home by now!" Bounce and mince and flit and saunter and there're quick steps on rapping heels and the bitch is _definitely_ more than a little haughty tonight. Peering into a window; an awareness of the sharply-defined jaw, the grace that's her mother's in youthful _lavishness_ , not yet hardened into a brutal skewering perfection, a diamond, yes, but not quite so extravagantly faceted.

Both so lovely. Ah, but is it a zeal for age, or maybe just that nebulous thing called _experience_? Eri's is an intuitive ease in tyranny. To capture the dominatrix's lash in her fine lissome fingers would be something totally gratuitous.

Not just gilding a lily; it'd be slathering it in platinum and encrusting it in rarefied gems. Why bother when she already has crystallized her command of humanity in its slavish groveling into an intuitive _art_ without discipline and without labor? A perfection in this.

It's a pastry shop. Not a twenty-four-hour pastry shop. It's Ran; there's no equivocation about that. A palm cradling a lean fine belly and the clothing isn't tonight's, is it? The hair thick and dark; a plum glint in the light wafting off from the displays in their dim multitudes, constellations of _petits-fours_ and éclaires and butter-drenched pointillism of the sumptuous the extravagantly Gallic.

"Ran. Ran? Hey, not so neurotic about our _diet_ , are we? It's- wow, that looks _fantastic_. 's probably a twenty-four-hour pastry buffet or _something_ at the Baker Hotel. Hey, Ran? What? Are you _pissed_ at me about something?

"What? That was the, ah, _finest_ candy you'll find in Japan. Don't blame _me_ for the Afghans being lackadaisical about quality control." Silence; a faintly irritable _sharpness_ in the face. The eyes cold in their glower through the window. The breasts, the long long long legs, the _everything_. Elegant and athletic and still _tinged_ with that exactingly achingly luscious _softness_. A creamy blouse cradling a chest that ain't quite _mine_ , but, well, how can you not be even a _little_ narcissistic about that one?

And lambent leggings wound around the curvaceous hips, fastened over the tight belly, modest kitten-heeled shoes easing her oh so so _close_ to my height.

"Hey, Ran, what the _fuck_? What? Is it _Mistress Orchid_ still-"

"Go _away_." Wha? It's... Not Ran's voice.

Heavier; huskier; deeper.

"Ah, Ran? 's the matter? Have you been crying or something? What, is it that Shin'ichi dingus? Aren't you _over_ him yet? C'mon. Shin'ichi. Conan. He's just a prick. You always _knew_ that, chicky. C'mon.

"Would you like some'a _myyyyy_ candy? It's fuckin' incredible-"

"Who the hell _are_ you?" Wheeling around now; the eyes are huge and incredulous and they're... Ran's, right? But it's not quite. The body. The face. The rarefied indigo cradling you _hedging_ you in their tear-twinkling universe.

"Ah... Ran, what the fuck, girl? Aren't you-"

"Who the hell _are_ you?!" Not quite a _shriek_ ; not quite. Heavier and deeper and _darker_ than anything that could accommodate it.

"Ran- _chan_ , c'mon. How drunk _are_ you? Are you getting _that_ bipolar? Schizoid? It's Ayumi-"

"Ayumi _who_ -"

"Oh, oh, _oh_. Are we playin' _that_ game? All right. I had _noooo_ idea that's what you wanted." Slip closer, and closer, and eyes narrow and flare open _humongous_. "Mmm... Y'know, Ran- _chan_ , that _is_ a lovely costume. It's _cuter_ than your bitch clothes tonight-"

"Who _are_ you?"

"Ah, it's... Oh, should we play the _whole_ game, Ran- _chan_? All right. Yoshida Ayumi. Right? Now, um, _who are you_?" The voice is cooing and soft and fragile; that trilling elegance that's not _quite_ , ah, _The Voice_. And still dwelling in that universe.

"I'm... You know what? I don't want to know you. You're- you're clearly a _weird_ person." Oh, yeah. "And what're you smoking? I don't _like_ smokers-"

"Yeah, right. This ain't _tobacco_ , Ran- _chan_. Oh! Right. Sorry, sorry." Something _extravagant_ ; a production in its most artful twist and quirk. Too bad Japan's never produced anything you could call _theatrical talent_. It'd be so much fucking _easier_ to compare yourself to that than, uh? Meryl Streep?

This ain't _Sophie's Choice_.

A long lingering breath.

"C'mon, honey-"

"Just stay away from me. You're- you're really a _freak_. Look at what you're wearing." Well, _that's_ confrontational. With a brewery's annual produce _weeping_ from her lips now. A sourness that suggests she's been fermenting whiskey in her gullet.

"Whoa, _Ran_ , what the fuck've you been _drinking_?"

"G-g'way!" Damn, she _is_ wasted.

More than wasted. This is as squandered as some top-heavy porno-perfect supermodel divinity wilting across some dull-eyed financier's doughy shoulder.

"Ah, all _right_. But they're not open. Hey! Why don't we hit the buffet at the Baker Hotel? I _know_ you'll love that. I'll pay. I mean, okay, _you'd_ be paying-"

"Fuck you, bitch! Y-you're such a slut! That's what you are?" Whuh? More than just _allegation_.

Arms flung up and the voice is a sharp cresting _bleat_. Jarring; it's fine stained glass mosaics ground under a combat boot and heaved through an industrial paper-shredder and reassembled and then twisted with ragged tearing edges into your fucking ear.

"Whoa, _damn_ , Ran, why doncha-"

"Who the fuck is Ran? Is- is that another of his sluts?! Is that it?! What's your name, you whore?! Huh?!" Wow. That's...

Something.

"Ran, I think you're having a meltdown. I mean, you didn't take _too_ much of the candy, right? You know- you know the dosage-"

"Who's Ran, goddammit?!" That would be a _shove_. It's something, uh... A little anemic. There's strength. Muscle. Self-evidently. But even a fucking _loaded_ Ran's blows are something deft, elegant, a muscle-memory perfection in every quick wheeling contortion.

"Hey, Ran-"

"Stop calling me that! What's wrong with you?! L-lookit your clothes! You're just a _slut_." The squalling dimming to a slow-burn _hiss_ percolating with venom. The eyes flitting down to my tits and they're transfixed 'cause, ah, _duh_. Plump and quivering through the tight elastic fabrics; my legs in their _endless_ unfurl.

The high high heels.

"You smell like _fuck_ -"

"Duh. I just visited your mom and dad. Uh- hey, what's with you-"

"My mom and dad! My mom and dad! Screw you, bitch!" Jeebus. _Another_ sharp jab of the palms and, ah...

"Hey, you two!" Oh, _fanfucktabulous_. It's _the authorities_. A glance over the shoulder and it's not some heaving histrionic pig-fever episode, but there's always that urgent sharp _pang_.

Damn damn damn _damn_.

What _is_ your worth to the Blacks?

Even with a Liquor Name, what's their patience with any legal inconvenience for a clutch of the unpretentiously psychotic?

"Cool down- oh, hey, Nakamori. She- she's not bothering you, right?" Oh, oh, _yes_. What a fucking _relief_ ; more than the word can even accommodate in its scope while the throng's eyes are conveniently averted from this oh so _ugly_ spectacle. The rupture in expectation and preconception and the suit's familiar. The face, also. Goddess, those fucking suits; as brazen as fuckin' ostentatious as the yakuzas'.

It _is_ that essence. A sartorial loudness that could probably deafen at a thousand paces. The sleek pencil skirt and the jacket and the blouse, yeah, but it's the _everything_ in its hue. The gaudy fucking _everything_. Brutal heels and the piece straining through the shoulder rig and the hair's sleek sharp obsidian a sharkskin _wickedness_. The eyes vulpine and the lips mischievous.

"Ah, uh, Miyamoto- _san_." The chick's just _wilting_ now; the shoulders slackening with a boneless gelid sullenness and fingertips steeple on the window. "Ah..."

"Hey, Yumi- _tan_." It _is_ Yumi; the eyes are wicked, sharp, an angular grace that only mesmerizes with a quick flitting glance.

Organized Crime; the demented suit.

"Something wrong, _Officer_ Nakamori?" Yumi's voice syrupy and soft and _unctuous_ , coiling through the air suddenly heavier, stickier, with a monsoon mist settling over the universe's every reach.

Ah? What? Officer Nakamori?

"Ah, it's not Ran? What the hell, Yumi- _tan_ -"

"You could at _least_ try to be a little respectful with me, y'know, Ayumi." A sigh; slow, long-suffering.

 _Oh, the shit I go through for my beloved public_.

"Yeah. I could, I guess, Inspector, but, ah... You _are_ with Organized Crime-"

"Oh, you know something about that, doncha? I could bring you in for that cig, you know, Ayumi. I _know_ that ain't tobacco." It's not quite the spearing yakuza twang; not the maundering gardens of pitch and vicissitude, rearing up to sharp breaking heights and plunging to guttural consonant-rolling sneers.

"Oh, you know I'd be out in five minutes, piglet. Don't be _mean_. But this isn't Ran? What the hell-"

"I know! The first time I saw Officer Nakamori, well, as a trainee, anyway, I just thought, _Mori Ran_! Damn. But it's not. This's Officer Nakamori." A palm _clapped_ on her shoulder. "What's the matter, Officer Nakamori?

"This chick bothering you? I could drag in Ayumi-"

"Why don't you bring in _Nakamori-san_ on a fuckin' drunk-and-disorderly? She assaulted _me_ , y'know, Yumi- _chan_." Why not compromise with _that_?

"This- this _whore_ -" It's _venom_ ; animus condensed into a burbling hot broth of supersaturated hatred for the universe and spurting off from her bared fangs.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ , Officer Nakamori. All right! All right! You are _wasted_ , honey. Calm down." Yumi's brow quirked with a wry little glint. "The fuck's wrong, Ayumi?"

"This- this _slut_ was fucking around with me!" And now there's the yakuza pitch that you definitely can't hear in Ran's voice. Deeper and heavier. "The fuck, lady? Why doncha just screw _off_ -"

"I thought it was Ran, Yumi. I mean, c'mon, lookit this chick. The _everything_. Maybe a little leaner."

"Yeah, well, it's her first year on the Force. Metro Patrol. She's headed for the riot squad."

"Damn. Ain't exactly Organized Crime, huh, Yumi? I'd say the salary's a _lot_ poorer." Oh, oh, how can you _not_ tease?

"Maybe I _should_ cart your ass in, Ayumi. You're a little mouthy today." _Today_?

"Oh, y'know how good I am with my mouth, Yumi- _tan_. I'm pretty mouth _e-ver-y day_. I just offered to bring our lil' pseudo-Ran- _tan_ to the Baker Hotel's whipped-cream-and-chocolate-all-you-can-gorge, and she just _had at me_ -"

"It was because you wouldn't leave me the fuck alone, slut! L-lookatyou! Look at those ridiculous big titties just hanging out! It's- it's 'cause of girls like you that _I_ hafta be alone-"

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. Do _not_ talk to our, ah, _public_ like that, Nakamori. Shit. All right. All right." A palm on my right shoulder; one clasped against _faux_ -Ran's left. "C'mon. Ayumi, she's a friend of mine. She's a good girl.

"She just... Damn, girl, that _is_ a short skirt-"

"'cause your yakuza costume just _roars_ professionalism, Yumi." How can you not tease and jab and, well, it's the hips' languorous sway and sashay. A slow slow _achingly_ patient dance in your ass' wriggle.

A _hunger_ bellowed in every quirk and twist.

"Oh, _don't_ say that-"

"Well, it's true, huh? And how the _hell_ was I s'posed to know that there was a clonal Ran in Baker? I mean, that's just _surreal_. Even the _eyes_ -"

"Well, she's a cop. Ran. Is. _Not_."

"Neither are you, Yumi, but _I'm_ still pretending-"

"Ran's a law student, okay? Nakamori is one of the precinct's _up-and-comers_." Hissed with an urgent admonition at the chick. "So why don't you just _cool it_ , okay, Nakamori? You do _not_ want to fuck with that.

"You might not know, but, ah, Ayumi's one of my friends-"

"So _you're_ friends with the _slut_?" Is that what you'd call, what, a statement of fact?

"Oh, Nakamori- _tan_ , honey, you're right. I _am_. Don't delude yourself that's some moral _sin_ ; that it's some wickedness. Why, _I_ , if you didn't know, I've been kissed by a Goddess' wisdom. Goddess- _chan_ came to me just this evening bearing tidings.

"I'm her Prophet. Prophetess? Whatever." A kiss kiss _kiss_ at the soft wet feathery air. "And it's the most _beautiful_ wisdom-"

"Oh, _don't_ talk like that. Nakamori's a Christian-" Yumi's groan probably creases through eight or nine octaves, eight miles high and falling down down down _dooooown_.

"Y-you should shut up about crap like that!" And there we are.

"Well, it's _obvious_ you've been taking the sacrament _very_ seriously, Christian- _chan_." Sneer. It's a sneer. I know it is. "She reeks like a brewery, Yumi. Ain't that a crime? Drunk-and-disorderly? Public intoxication?

"Not the _best_ reflection on the Metro Department-"

"Fuck you, whore!" _Well_. That would be a fist brandished. "Why doncha just-"

"That's _enough_ , Nakamori- _san_. Damn. You girls. You look like you're about to have a catfight or something. And not the _good_ kind, either." Yumi's chest, well, it's not _modest_. But it's imploding _deflating_ with a sigh that's approximately half the planet's breath just heaved through her lips. "You two are starting to piss me off.

"Stop provoking Nakamori, all right, Ayumi? And you, Nakamori? I am a _superior_ officer; stop making trouble with Ayumi. She's, ah, _special_."

"That's _right_. I'm _very_ special. I mean, _look_ at these." How can you not vamp? Preen? Heave and sway and there's a quick _dip_. Fingertip laced into the neckline and just _tugged_ a bit. "You look like you'd have Ran's chest.

"Her _very_ nice soft titties. What's wrong with _you_ , anyway, Nakamori?" There's a _hugeness_ in the eyes. A trembling wet rheumy incredulity with the world.

With the idea that there's even _water_ in oceans.

"W-waaaaaah!" Oh, damn.

It's not Ran.

It's...

It's a little-girl _wail_. It's a baying tormented howl rearing up up up and it's Yumi in recoil it's a screech that will probably coax tortured baying from dogs in the immediate fifty or sixty kilometers.

"W-waitaminute, sorry, sorry, ah, Nakamori- _san_." Palms upraised at her. Appeasing.

 _Shh! Shh! Don't! Don't do that! Sorry, sorry, sorry!_

"I just- I'm a tease, y'know, Nakamori- _san_! I'm sorry; my sincerest apologies. My most candid absolute _tortured_ woe and grief and... Please, please, _please_ , stop crying." Palms clapped together now; stooped in a Mandarin's groveling bow. "Please-"

"Heeee leeeeeeeeft!" Wha? A glance at Yumi and the eyes answer with, _Do not ask do not ask do not ask do not ask!_

"Who left?" _Fuck you, Ayumi!_

This is her eyes' message.

 _Why would you ask her that?!_

"Kaaaaaito!" Wuh?

"Ah, I-"

"Kaaaito! You pig! You fucking pig!" And now, now, that's just... Well, it's a cliché.

And still the truth.

A Scene. Its most archetypal essence. Her elbows _crunking_ against the glass and now the palms slapping wet and the eyes burbling _fountaining_ with tears in their lucent flowering effusion.

"You fucking pig, Kaito!" That's...

"He wouldn't be Mori Kogorou's illegitimate son, would he?" It's a subdued little murmur.

"I don't know- Mori? Mori- _sensei_? No. No! He'd never have anything to do with that swine, Kaito! He- he's such a _bastard_ -"

"Hey, ah, Yumi? Do you know any bars around here? I'd say _she_ does, but, ah... Hey, why not place I know? It's a quiet little hotel." Well, it's...

True.

It _is_ a hotel.

Love-Love Superfun Hawaiian Room Inn.

It's a hotel of sorts.

Peering up at the façade now in its gaudy neon-swept spectacle of the concrete tropical. Gawping at the lambent glass the grimy stone the steel _everything_ and the garish tiki convolutions and it's, well... It's with _faux_ -Ran slung over Yumi's shoulder; and it's obvious that _Yumi_ ain't foreign to this place, either.

 _Ah, hiya, Yumi-san!_

Yumi's shoulders shrinking; the chick manning the desk is the quintessential boisterous bumpkin retiree. The gap-toothed ebullience in the smile that swallows half the sun-battered face creased like a Shar Pei.

The room's, well, a _room_ ; a balcony overlooks an alley grimy with age and time and the familiar bums and rummies and more than a few salarymen sleeping it off. And whatever _it_ is clearly defies liquor's simple numbness. There's a shudder and jerk; a guy's cradling what may or may not be a rat as a teddy bear, the figure a bit of scrawling shadow in the gloom.

Damn.

The door's closed; voices intrude in their sonic mayhem. Still forever, forever the elemental awe in the city's _silence_. Not a hushed textureless quietude but still so _dim_ beside any other. A politesses; a collective conspiracy of innocuous comfort. A will that your miseries should not collide with another's with fear not of reconciliation but collective infection, a protoplasmic thing bloating growing more more _more_.

The mattress is in acreage, draped in bedding that's _probably_ been laundered. I think. I _hope_ ; there's a scent in stale tobacco camouflaged in layered commingled perfumes tumbling together with promiscuous hugeness. Cologne huddles in a faint mist around the display bristling with rubbers and exotic bits of lubricious latex.

No paucity even of panties.

Ah! Preowned. Quite the discount.

Yumi's fingers laced around a beer, the frothing pisswater downed without relish and without misery and without really _anything_ at all. Not my brand. Plucked out of the fridge thrumming in its garish fuchsia-and-seafoam husk; tiki figures leer with a ghoulish Mardi Gras exuberance from around the room's fixtures.

And there's another clasped in Nakamori's trembling numb fingers. The tears are relentless, uninterrupted. A miserable plangent wail and howl again and again and again and it just beggars belief. This stupid fucking name again and again and again.

 _Kaaaaito!_

Kaaaaito!

"Who the _hell_ is this Kaito dude? Chick? Chipmunk?" A faint little murmur into Yumi's ear, obligingly twisted to me.

"Ah. It's her boyfriend-"

"He _was_! T-that- that _slut_!" And another wail and a quail and the beer's about a half-inch from just _slumping_ from the miserable fingers.

Snatched out of her hands; downed with a quick gasp.

"Damn, she's killin' my buzz, Yumi- _tan_. This chick needs to get _high_. Seriously fuckin' high. You have any shabu for her-"

"God, will you _shut up_?" Yumi's answer's sharp slow _hiss_ like a fart leaking from an old man's half-broken bowels. "Don't talk about shit like that around some square neophyte. What's with you? Are the chems finally starting to hit you _here_?" Finger prodding between my eyes.

"Nah. I just thought it'd be a boon. That's _all_ , honey. Anyway, you know, men are _men_. They're not even that. They're just _boys_. Boys are _boyz_ , honey." Harsh hot sibilance in the word; palms slapped on my hips, craning down to seek her eyes with a questing expectation. "What's _wrong_ with you, Nakamori?

"No self-respect?"

"W-what would _you_ know?!" And another urgent awful little bleat like a hydrogen bomb's belch.

"Ah, what would I know-"

"Y-you've never had a real boyfriend before, right?!" Well, ain't _that_ presumptuous?

I mean, it's true, but that's _quite_ beside the point.

"No. Not really. I _do_ have boy _friends_. More than a few of them. Oh, there are a few _very_ proprietary admirers. Nothing puts them off _that_ faster than hearing that I'd like to spend a bit of time with _both_ of them at once. But I don't commit myself.

"Why? Let me _guess_. High school hopes _betrayed_. The chick that'd always been courting him. Huge huge _huuuuge_ titties-"

"It isn't even Akako! I would've understood if it'd been Akako!" And that long plangent awful _wail_.

"Akako?"

"T-the witch!" Oh.

"Hey, is that Koizumi- _maho_?"

Eyes gawping now.

Craning up.

"Y-y'know Akako?" Syllables slurred with enough drink to stun an overweight elephant.

"Yeah. I do." _Quite_ the investment in, oh, exotic alchemical incantations. "I do. She's, ah..." _Delectable_.

Damn.

Da-yum, as the kiddies say.

"Hey, waitaminute. You- you must be _that_ Nakamori Aoko! Oh, that's _so_ fuckin' weird. I didn't- goddess, it didn't even _occur_ to me. Akako- _san_ said you, ah, were a little weepy about Kaito- whoops." And that'd be Yumi's shoulders imploding down into her ascending colon.

A scowl that roars with unassailable eloquence, _Why the fuck'd you say that name?!_

"He's- he's such a _pig_!" Hmmm. Quite the endorsement.

"Well, pigs can be _very_ charming. But you don't marry a pig-"

"He's not a pig! Don't you say that about him!" And now, now, the irresistible _recrimination_.

It's...

There's nostalgia in it.

It's confidence's _break_.

Not a delicate and certain thing; it's not the archetypal bandage twisted and _wrenched_ from the coalescing thickening flesh stitching itself through the fabric but something altogether more plodding. A cruelty in a millimeter-by-millimeter incision with a rust-encrusted blade.

Names.

Ages.

An _epochal_ anguish, face slapped into the pillow and the pillow into another and the chest heaves and shudders with its growing adulthood not in flesh but simply in experience. In innocence defied and denied and betrayed in _pain_.

Pain is growth; growth is pain.

Time scars more surely than biology.

The will that this _not_ be.

Your hatred is something novel, polarized. A blind absolutist thing. You're entitled to the recriminations; another's is _obscenity_ , heresy. The heathen yammering against the god that has betrayed you but it's still _your_ god. Still the divinity in your breast.

Fingers lace over her shoulders.

"Shh. Shh. Shh. I _have_ had this before, y'know, Aoko- _san_? I guess I'd just _forgotten_ my empathy with, ah," everything else, "With the laundry this morning. Shh. Shh. I understand, all right? Oh, _Yumi_ understands-"

"Don't drag me inna this shit." While her fingers cradle the cigarette sparked with a _profoundly_ gaudy gilded lighter shimmering like grease under the dim lights coiling soft and satiny and _pussy-pink_ through the room from its shrouded fixtures.

"You _really_ need to smoke, Yumi?"

"What? What?"

"Smoke one of _mine_. The, ah, _sweet_ cigarettes, y'know?" And at least it's extinguished in an instant, snapped into an ashtray. More than a little gratitude in the hungry eyes. "There's a little Tibetan, also-"

"Oh, seriously? Hey, ah, thanks, Ayumi. And I am _so_ relieved it was you and not, y'know, someone with delicate sensibilities who'd take this shit up with HQ." Clutching one of the tautly-rolled joints between luscious and delectable lips ripe and pallid with a thick blowjob gloss.

The lighter's flame is coaxed into being with the thumb's quick confidence rasp; the oil's greasy, unctuous on the nostrils, the fire's scent more intense for a fleeting few seconds than even the joint. And it's rearing up, hotter and heavier.

And it's either liquor or naïvete but there's not a whisper from the square newly-minted pig.

"Oh, oh, _oh_ , 's fuckin' fantastic. Y'know, _you_ should have one of these, too, Aoko. I'm serious-"

"I don't smoke." Aoko's voice is a husky raw little murmur; a faint reedy misery along its pitches. "I don't smoke-"

"Well, that's fine. So, ah, did you give it up to this guy? This Kaito dude?" Closer, and closer. "Hey, take my hands, Aoko- _san_. I'm serious. You have the _loveliest_ fingers. The worst part of these places is that there's _no_ room-service. It'd be fantastic, right, Yumi- _tan_?" Quick and a little manic.

For everyone.

"Why not a _heap_ of desserts-"

"You're gonna regret that eventually, Ayumi." It's allegation, brutal sharp a fingernail poised like an assassin's dagger leveled with my throat.

"Mmm? What? Are you babbling about the fat and sugar going _elsewhere_ than these tits-"

"I'm talking about some jealous girl like _moi_ ," such _sophistication_ , "Finally just _murdering_ the fuck out of you for it. It _is not_ fair."

"Age, age-"

"Oh, _that_ was not very wise, Ayumi." Chortling in pulsating syncopating smoke-signal spurts through the joint.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, ah... Wouldn't that be _delicious_ , Aoko- _san_?"

"I'm not hungry." Sullen; sulky.

"Oh, sure. That's why you were slavering over those pastries in the window. 'cause that's my _obsession_ when I have _no_ appetite-"

"We went there once; he took me to breakfast there. It was so _nice_." Oh, _fanfuckintabulous_. The dam's breaking again. "And- and-"

"Does it even fucking _matter_? So, ah, was it a woman like _me_?"

"I- I mean-"

"If you're going to bray at me about being some disgusting disgraceful slut who's robbing you of your divinely-anointed blood-red-thread passion, then at _least_ have it actually _be_ someone like me-"

"She's just- she's pretty-"

"That's _it_? Well, _you're_ quite the trollop, too, aren't'cha?" Confrontational. I know it is. But it's coming down and not with grace and not with elegance and it's something _deeper_ still.

The heathen's _stink_.

An awareness of some pungent confessional tribute to her own moral perfidy. To recoil away from that perfection in sexual sublimity. So why not slip the dagger deeper and deeper and deeper? Liberation, kiddies.

"W-what-"

"Well, that's what I mean. I'm just... I _love_ the word _slut_ , y'know. It's delectable. It's all of that crass overcompensating patriarchal judgment, that _bullshit_ , condensed into a word that you can just choke down like a medicine ball and transmute into...

"Whatever you want. Whatever you'd like to be. I am _me_ , honey. I am I. I am _myself_ and whatever else I'd like ta be. Oh, you're just so _cute_ , aren't'cha-"

"S-stop it-" Oh, but it's helpless.

She's been captured.

It's the fish's sharp-edged epiphany; it's the hook's first _tug_ in the cheek. It's a gasp and a shudder and the tail's impotent thrash and now, now, now, it's finished but for the line's violent lurching jerk.

"Yeah, _right_." Fingertips _brushed_ on cheeks faintly dusty with makeup. "You're so _pretty_ , y'know, Aoko. Ran- _chan_ is one of my, oh... Very, _very_ close friends. I _love_ the wardrobe, by the way. The cute ruffled skirt and your tights. And that _blouse_.

"Very very _chessboard_. Your hair's like hers, also. It's so weird-"

"Damn, listening t'you two, I'd be amazed if _you_ didn't just have the same voice, though." How _helpful_ , Yumi- _chan_. Thank you. Gurgling up at us from her poise sprawled across the mattress, eyes transfixed with the ceiling.

And then swirling swiveling plunging down down _down_ to my ass.

And hers.

Mouthed, _Damn_.

"Mmm. It's true, isn't it? Yours is even huskier, Aoko- _san_. You've been screaming even more than _I_ have. And that's quite a bit-"

"W-why're you so close?" Oh, oh, _oh_. Epiphany. In a swallow that distends the fine slim throat. The creamy soft skin oh so faintly _kissed_ now in this light with tawny color. A grade deeper than Ran; not quite Kazuha.

"Mmm? Because I think you're _very_ pretty. I guess it's just intuitive, y'know? Like with Ran. It's just... Simple. I does it 'cause ah _doooes_ it." Cooing and crooning. A manic intensity in this. "Mmm..."

"What's- what's that smell-"

"Oh, you _know_ what it is." Creasing the nostrils; _mawkish_. Thick and unctuous and rich and lathering in the joint's confluence in syrupy opium and grass and a bit of hash oil and _this_. Sex and sweat, ripe but not _overripe_.

A sweetness that awes.

"It's sex, honey. I am _become_ sex. Filled with it; _swarmed_ with it. Mmm... Have _you_ fucked today-"

"S-stop it-" It's not an authentic protest. Not when the eyes are simply transfixed; when the hands don't fall away in resignation or slap at your chest. When they're _laced_ over her belly; when the stare slithers up and down up and down like an anaconda with a zeal for step aerobics.

Slither aerobics?

Whichever.

Tongue a graceful pink flit over her dewy lips.

"Mmm. I think that's a _no_ , right? And yesterday-"

"W-we did yesterday-" It's an anemic protest; a hopeless broken crucifix brandished against the atheist vampire.

"Oh, so you're still _filled_ with it, right?"

"N-n-no-"

"So you wear? Oh, even with your boyfriend? _Ex_ -boyfriend. That's so cute." And so so close. "You're _gorgeous_ , you know, Aoko- _san_. If you were with Ran, I think... Well, _I_ wouldn't be the only one to succumb to a stroke. Mmm...

"Maybe I should introduce you to Eri- _sensei_. She'd freak the fuck _out_. Her daughter in this _enchanting_ clonal shape. This _form_. And not at all. Have you ever kissed a girl, Aoko- _san_?" The imperishable question.

The Lizzie Shibboleth.

Are you a member of the tribe?

"W-wha-" Those luscious delicious lips in their play-pretend innocence rippling rubbery _groping_ for purchase on a truth. Any truth. A convenient one, especially.

"Have you? Yes or no?"

"A-ah, it's-"

"Oooh, it's _complicated_ , huh? My, my, _my_. Akako-"

"Did- did that bitch tell you?" Well.

"Uh-uh. You did." And now, well, how can the fingers _not_ be emboldened? Motivated to defy gravity in their fall, rearing up up up to _clasp_ at her cheeks. Slipping lacing twisting through her hair's huge sumptuous flourish. "Oh, that's just _delicious_.

"You know, I _had_ a virgin fetish. I did. To... To be a girl's or a boy's first. Now? 's just... Ah, how should I _phrase_ it? The _je ne sais quoi_ 's gone, baby, _gone_. I love experience. Not that you'd need to be as, oh, _experienced_ ," Mister Hendrix, "As I am.

"Just something. I want to kiss you. Would y'mind, Aoko- _san_? _Chan_ , maybe? Aoko? Just Aoko?" Cradling the cheeks; fingers taste her ears' achingly fragile shells. The soft soft skin. "May I?"

Silence.

Lips pursed.

The heart's beat is an immense palpable _thunder_ ; plumes up in its endless disturbance through the neck. A glance down at fragrant sweat-perfumed skin yields a cadence like a hummingbird's.

"Have you done _eeeverything_?" How can you not tease and torment? Prod and jab and there's only the simple _intimacy_ now in the fingers and hands and _hers_ settling on my belly. It's something unreal; a surreality in that elemental perfection.

Splayed out; fanned like a poker hand announcing its unequivocal self-satisfied victory.

A whisper on sweat-damp skin; it's flesh and flesh and flesh and flesh and not a stern jab in firm wrists and a violence _unfurling_ through the arm with urgent melodramatic intensity but an achingly delicate sigh.

A whisper in skin.

And skin.

Her lips fine paired cherry petals, lush and ruby and quivering in an unfelt wind. The air is stagnant; it steeps with the night. The fan is a meaningless thing; the air-conditioning, also, half-remembered in its muttering.

Yumi's silence is sipped with gratitude; the smoke wreathes us. Fuchsia light coils and wraps around the flesh in a delicate shawl.

"No." The word is an invitation. "No, I- I haven't-"

"But you're, ah, _experienced_. With a boy."

"With boys." Lips _shuddering_ now. Taut.

"Oh, _my_. And with Akako- _maho_. She's _very_ beautiful, isn't she? You know, I've had some _lovely_ work with her in that strange dark place outside reality. What. About. _You_?"

"She's..." And there is a closeness now. Bowing nearer, and nearer, and nearer. _Drunk_ with her. Suddenly dazzlingly _glutted_ with her allure in its apparition. To know the cognitivedissonance in Ran without Ran.

In the voice that _could_ be mine.

The breath that is not.

"I'll ask you, you know. I'm not one of _those_ Lizzies-"

"Wha?"

"I don't know. I _just_ heard it today; I'm entranced with it. Lizzies. Lilies. Y'know, lezzies?"

"O-oh."

"I won't _take_." Goddess knows that Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdom rears up in a delirium curtaining every sense. But I _could not_. That _masculine_ evil has been exorcised. Cast out. _Begoooone_! "I never could. I just...

"I'd like to know. May I kiss you?"

Thunder.

You can _taste_ it on the tongue.

"May I kiss you?" Closer, and closer. Fingers laced through her hair, up up up. _Tingling_ on the scalp. Eyes in their union; a confluence not in height, but proportion. Her kitten heels and mine high high high _high_.

A tiny disparity, and she is dwarfed in its scope.

"Ah..."

"Don't be worried about _insulting_ me. It's not rude to refuse-"

"I- I just..." There is lust.

Craving.

 _Scalding_.

"What?"

"I want it." Hot and husky and _flaring_ from her lips. "I want it, but-"

"He did it first. He fucked around _first_. But I know that doesn't matter. You want it, right? Shall I grant you permission? The Goddess- _chan_ consecrates our union. In the Name of The Mother, The Daughter, The Top-Heavy Ghost."

Cooing it now.

Tongue _through_ cheek.

"I want it. I want it." Ah. And now Three Mile Island. A graceful _achingly_ delicate little meltdown. Wilting; faltering.

Pouring closer, closer.

"Do you? I don't know-"

"I want it." A tremor and a coo spring from the lips with an Olympian zeal. Want want _want_.

"Caaan't always get whatchu waaant-"

"Wha? I- I don't speak English too well-"

"It means I'm teasing you." And teasing, and teasing. And her fingers, oh, oh, oh, how _presumptuous_. Cinching into the shirt's fabric.

A mere _micron_ from flesh.

A kiss.

Ah.

Would anyone _imagine_ that it could be so prosaic? Because it's the _first_ kiss; a novel and enchanting thing. Every first is the _first_. Is the lips' achingly uneasy communion; is the softness in woman and woman, in those cherry-petal elegances. She is a sakura, how wry, how witty, but it's true, plump and _creasing_ one another. Not Eri's brutally wicked tease but a firmness that is not violence. Not decisive and not indecisive.

A _perfection_. Luscious and falling closer, and closer, her chest the creamy fabric's whisper against bare heat. It's fingers finding purchase in her hair in its thickness; it's _hers_ cinching, clenching, and finally spiraling away into the endless meaningless darkness and coalescing again on the hips, warm warm warm hot _scalding_ a violence in their mere being like iron inflamed with napalm's burbling lunging fire.

A shiver in the inferno.

The eyes will not close because they _must not_ ; every sense must feast, must gorge, must taste. And a first kiss becomes a second, wetter, the gloss sticky and delectable against the lips. And there is an intuitive ease that is the woman's province, tongues coiling together in their languor and there is light and shadow and both are equally meaningless beside the _effulgence_ in that Sapphic sublime.

Glorious poetry recited with inexpressible perfection in the soft numb inarticulate wetness. The dampness in lips; the tongues' grace and lassitude. Brushed first along hers and retiring retreating with a wink's enticement and hers now creases those planes and topographies that can only _truly_ be known in the kiss. The fingers, the cock, the toes, ah, ah, how _lovely_ they are; the breasts, also, lavish and sumptuous and that scalding steeping _sodden_ femininity.

But the kiss defines it. It is _wrought_ in its image; captures its truest geometry in this communion's reflection. A spiritual scope; a celestial mirror that distills the _essence_ and heaves it in endlessly scrawling splintering quicksilver through every vein and every nerve.

A sigh.

A sigh, and there can only be another kiss, and another, and another. It is the essence of curling toes and clutching fingers. It is sweat flaring up along the skin's every intimate reach. It is the heart's ambition to claim passage through the chest, to bare itself not in romance but only passion's simple blind yowling idiot frenzy.

It is lust.

Lust.

Fingers _bite_ into hips; dimple and crease the waist's sharp taper from curvaceous flesh.

The skirt's fabric is enticement in its simple perfunctory _nothing_ ; it is not to command imagination so much as merely to adorn the reality.

A shiver.

Kiss her, and kiss her.

Yumi's slow serpentine pivot is a groan announcing an audience dark-eyed with expectation. Lust's guise is not in the metaphysical and not in the tangible, either, but a shadowland between them; a strange and inscrutable and _opaque_ place a _space_ wrought in twisting shifting shadows like vacillating sands gathered and tossed and littered with a giant's hands through an endless dusky desert. There is neither darkness nor light. There is neither being nor non-being.

None of these can really _matter_.

Her mouth. Her tongue. Twisting together, tangling, and we are need and need and desperation and insouciance and hunger without satiation and none of this can even _aspire_ to matter at all. Life and fate and reality simply fade recede away into lips. The lips are _everything_. I am become my body; my soul is become my body; my soul is me and I am _it_ and we're neither, also. Very happily. Kiss and kiss and kiss. Her _heat_ is here. Spearing through me.

Ripping raking up up up through every. Fucking. Inch. Palms on my hips; stirring and guiding and it's to be a cauldron tipped with diffident and uneasy hands closer and closer and closer to a tumble and its burbling boiling contents can be known and felt and there's scalding oil there and it doesn't matter at all. Reward lurks in its bowels.

Kiss her; Yumi's silence is the polite voyeur's. Breath regular and slow and still oh so heavy and husky and _hot_ from the mattress. The hands, well, what can imagination even dredge up, _triangulating_ the fingers' and palms' flit and flicker.

There are Aoko's.

"Ah, ah, _Aoko-san_ -"

"Don't call Aoko _san_." Oh, oh, _oh_. A coo thick and breathy from the throat. Husky and almost graveling and still that enchanting _childishness_. "He always said it was a kiddy thing to do-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. It isn't at all, Aoko. Aoko. _Chan_ -"

"J-just call Aoko _Aoko_ , all right? Ayumi-"

"Ayumi is _very_ happy to be called _Ayumi_. Never gave a shit about honorifics, anyway." Eyes entrance; her fingers not shy and still not the _appropriate_ brazenness. A wish for something closer, closer, closer to the core.

A palpable _plea_.

Silent askance in the tremor around the hips; dimpling the skin and rising up up up. A _shiver_ ; a coo from my lips.

"Ah, ah, Ayumi, I-"

"Don't ask me _anything_. I'm just... _Suffused_ with Goddess- _chan_ 's spirit, y'know. I don't need to be asked." Every word punctuated with a kiss; the eyes will not be sundered with a blink. "Touch me." A kiss. Wet and sticky and _luscious_ with her. "Spank me." And another; the tongues melt together with a word-numbing zeal. "Hit me. Slap me. Touch me. Lick me. Push me down and _rape_ me.

"If you can even _try_."

"Like y'can rape a girl who says, _Do anything_." Yumi's voice a creamy diabolic mutter from the mattress.

"Shh, you." A finger would be waggled if it could be spared. "I'm giving Aoko a _lesson_ ; a very precious one. She needs her Sapphic _confidence_. I'm the best teacher, you know-"

"Everybody always learns to ride the village bicycle first." Ha ha _ha_ , Yumi.

"Oh, not at _all_. I'm not _unselective_. I just... I find myself very enthusiastic about _beautiful_ people. Every beauty I meet. I'm very clean, however. Very, ah, _everything_. Do you want it? Do you want me to _show_ you, Aoko?"

"Yes." It's timid, this whisper that _heaves_ like the first warmth percolating from a bonfire's satin gathering inferno. "Yes-"

"Oh. Really? Then I will. I promise. Maybe even Yumi'd care to help-"

"Y-Yumi- _san_?" It's almost epiphany.

Ah! You _are_ there, aren't you?

Eyes suddenly uneasy; wrenched to the figure on the mattress in her suit in its brazen yowling _**bone-white**_ and she _is_ oh so lovely, isn't she? The, ah, _allure_ in age we'll politely circumlocute as _experience_. It isn't worn as anything but a hardened confidence, set like aspic in her eyes, rheumy with lust and more than a little grass and opium.

 _Another_ joint robbed from the heap. Who cares?

Who cares?

Who cares?

"Mmm? Well, I wouldn't _mind_." With long magenta-lacquered fingers already easing away the jacket, slipped slowly slowly _slowly_ from slender shoulders. An untroubled athleticism in her poise; an elegance that's not the bodybuilder's or the fighter's but the dancer's. A lassitude in the long long _long_ legs; a pallid stiletto, designer, obviously, or a lovely bootleg likeness, sways from a toe. Slips back with a dewy little sigh.

Stockings shimmer gauzy on her calves; reach up to the thighs. Awed, awed, entranced with this seam carved across the flesh; a succulent allure in the meat and the bone and fat's faintest _lushest_ kiss. Purchase for the hosiery.

"Oh, no, Yumi- _san_? Why, I'm just _awed_. The idea that _you'd_ heave yourself into a lil' daisy chain? Just. Fucking. _Incredible_." And hands must now be liberated from Aoko's hair; they must ease down down down along the lissome shoulders. Aoko's athleticism is deeper than Ran's; harder. The breasts _are_ a bit modester; the body slenderer.

And still oh so _delectable_.

A kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and there is a fundamental _shyness_ in the eyes; averted and still pleading for attention. Not the coquette's but the novice dancer. Always, always, always, the exhortation in the first slow timid strokes.

 _Notice me!_

But don't.

 _But please please please **please** , notice me!_

Crave it.

Need it.

I want it. Want. Want surpasses _all_. Fingertips _needle_ at the cheeks ruddy and hot. Blood puddles there, straddles the body's fullest scope, settling between the thighs, also. Knees tremble with a lust-conjured anemia.

"A-ah, ah-"

"You want it, right, Aoko? Should _I_ help you out of that blouse-"

"Oh, god!" A _heave_ ; spine arching and it's something almost supernatural, this urgent hot wet incantation. The clamoring simply liberated exploding up up up and the body _twists_ with it, buffeted in the hungering hurricane frenzy.

"I think that's a _yes_ , Ayumi." Yumi's _such_ an obliging peanut gallery, ain't she?

A fine commentary.

"Oh, yes." But it is to kiss her. And it's something archetypal. It _must_ be. Your first is your first is your first. Can really _only_ be. All of these novelties. "How did you _always_ imagine it, Aoko? I'm not deluding myself that you'd entertained these divinely-anointed fantasies about _me_.

"But... Did you think it would be rough? Or gentle? Pushed up against a wall with... With groping hungry _cruel_ hands twisting and tugging and pulling?" And there will be illustration. Her body is not putty but clay; it is to be warped and manipulated with a fanciful little quirk in the will because reality is only desire made manifest.

Ad libitum.

It is shackled to will. It is only lust; it is only craving. It is the shoulders grazing the wall it is the eyes humongous and lashes beating a quick sibilant melody through the sticky air it is the lips quivering the body _convulsive_ it is fingers straining both hands in their achingly graceful repose with wrists clamped against the dusky paint and it is with her own conviction. A brazen boisterous confidence a conviction a tyranny the wild-eyed delinquent and it is timeless displaced into another moment another wish another plea.

Heaving; fingertips nestled against the buttons. Tasting her pulse's relentless rhythmic throb and pummel through the skin through the fabric.

Trembling. This is her will?

"Mmm... Let. Me. _Guess_. A few sweet schoolgirl fantasies? 'cause _you_ were always the _good_ innocent girl, right?" The head's sharp cock; the brows' quirk. The pressure knot loosed with fingers' quick jerk and stroke and the hair defies belief again in its elemental _hugeness_. Spilling satiny and lavish over my shoulders; slithering into the sweat's sticky steeping immensity.

"I-"

"'course you were. I was a good girl 'til I hit, oh, about junior high school. And suddenly, it just _came_ to me, y'know, Aoko? It just... It was an _epiphany_. All of it. Conan- _kun_. Haibara- _chan_. Mmm. Ran- _chan_. All of 'em. They were just there.

"Everything wheeling and twisting and then I was _alone_ one evening and... And I sneaked a little booze from mommy and daddy's cabinet and it _hit_ me, y'know? It just- it was _there_. The wisdom in the _forbidden_. It struck me. Lightning. _Why_ is it forbidden? Ah! Ah! Ah! _That_ would be why!

"Never bothered, right?" It's a patient slow narcissism; it's the essence of bin Laden tucked into his idyll nestled in the craggy peaks. The languorous pauses, the reflection for thirty seconds or five minutes and it's a resolute indifference to _anything_ but just what you are.

This's what I am.

This is the truth.

Ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive. Always forever _here_.

"You're so sweet. You're older than I am; you feel like you should just be the _sweetest_ little high school girl." There is a kiss; lips _graze_ the makeup-dusted cheeks. Tremors flit like a sainted spine speared through the San Andreas.

They will lunge and coil through the planet.

Mountains will shudder.

Tsunamis will rise.

Explosive.

Ricocheting and there there there, because fingers slip now around the wrists. She's _penned_ , hopeless, a delectable impotence, a knee nudged between the fabric-draped thighs and there's only their fullest length, the clinging thick black tights that could only be steeping in sweat now.

"How _drenched_ are you, Aoko- _tan_?" A coo trills up from luscious lips; her ear is a canvas for every huge sordid _smear_. A crass impressionism that's nothing so odious as _modern art_ , those most loathsome words.

Oh, no, no, no. It's still artistry; it's only a _wicked_ one. Great splotching splashing swarms of color; _Starry Night_ sudden ruptured with a thermonuclear sunrise.

"Hyah!" And there is _pain_. The first sharp _lance_ into the throat; the vampire's fangs. "A-ah, ah-" And there is compassion, also, salving and soothing with the tongue's dart, gingerly wending along the first few garnet pricks that flare up.

It becomes a suction.

"Ah, looks like _somebody's_ gonna need a turtleneck tomorrow at work!" Yumi's singsong cooing from the mattress. And it's oh so lovely, isn't it, captured in her eyes.

A quick glance back at her; a dreamy thrall, palms upraised, cradling her chin with girlish exuberance. High high heels limn a pallid stripe to and fro, distending through the sodden air.

Perfumed with _us_.

With the ghosts of lovers past.

Bits of unconsummated human potential probably _still_ adorning the wastebins.

Fingertips steepling on her belly.

"Not a _word_ , Aoko? Only a _hyah_ -"

"H-ah, ha, ha, _ah_." Whimpering; mewl; keen. Voice swallowed into her neck's soft satin heat. A kiss, a kiss, a kiss. Nip and nibble and gnaw and _hunger_. Maul her now. Quick urgent snapping kisses, spattering and exuberant and now, now, why bother with anything like subtlety?

"I _want_ you, Aoko. I'm fucking _drenched_."

 _What else's new?_ Thank you, _thank_ you, Yumi.

"No comments from the peanut gallery unless it's breathless adulation-"

"Fine, fine! Rah, rah, rah!" And such a charming cheerleader. "Oh, I _was_ a cheerleader during high school. Wow, the _pussy_ you can get with that." It's such a lovely glimpse, isn't it, into that warped gnarled thorn-bristling garden that Yumi calls a psyche? "And _Sato_. Oh, oh, _oh_. She loved my costume.

"She'd ask me to wear it-"

"Quiet, you. It's about _us_." And now, there can only be the lips. Fingers gather together her wrist, _snapped_ with a sharp rattle in bone over her head, and there's captivity.

Invited without a sense of hypocrisy.

A wriggle and writhe and it's only a knee eased up up _up_. A graze. Heat; heat; heat. It's a _moan_ ; huge and straining and its shoulders are so _great_ in their sonic scope that they're just _tearing_ up through her throat. Head thrown back without compunction; about a half-inch from a self-inflicted concussion and what does it even matter?

"A-ah- _nyaaaah_!" Nyah?

Yumi's giggle ain't quite _polite_.

But there's a hard raking serrated edge in it, also. Diamond-littered chainsaw over your ears.

"Ah, ah, ah, Ayumi, Ayumi-"

"You can call me _Ayu_ , y'know. Only a few girls have _that_ luxury; I kinda like it-"

"Ayu! Ayu!"

"Aoko. Aoko. What a _beautiful_ name-"

"'s- 's written with _blue_ and _child_ -" Giggling manic bits of the surreal; the politesse in _this_ perfect raw raucous intimacy. No formula here; no ritual here. Only eternity's endless song.

"Oh, listen to _that_. So cute. So _formal_. Blue child? Not so blue _now_. Well, maybe you'll just suffocate with all those screams." More than breathless. The lungs grope at purchase on air and it's a futility, isn't it, when it'll only melt away with another huge bellow and another shrill adorable yelp and another oh so endearing keen and squeal.

Knee ground slowly slowly _slowly_ through that heat that's burbling now through the tights.

"A-ah, ah, Ayu-"

"'s right, Aoko- _tan_. Mmm..." It's a carnal vagabondage; up and down and meandering with a cartographer's exuberance for the unique. No mountain is like any other; no woman is ever _really_ alike. What painful inattentiveness even to _imagine_ it could be.

It is stupidity, you understand, those phrases.

 _It's unimaginable!_

 _It's unthinkable!_

But it's terrifying that anyone could even conceive of a world wrought in that wicked ugly homogeneity. Not when the buttons can be slipped open in their exotic patterns; not when even the identical twin isn't at all, the voice and pitch and quaver and timbre still so achingly _exactingly_ novel. A shiver and the breasts are flaring up, paler than her face, her hands.

"Oh, look at _these_. _Someone_ swims in a one-piece." Goddess, the graceful tan-lines in their faint caramel gradations; oh so _trivially_ darker and irresistible now. "You love swimming, huh?" It _is_ a swimmer's physique, isn't it?

"M-my apartment has a pool-"

"Maybe _I_ should come. What do you think? Would I be popular? Lounging around inmy bikini? I'm _sure_ someone'd volunteer to smear lotion on me, right?" The eyes tremble; lust-drunk and just _delirious_.

But the drunk's receded. Alcohol's a triviality when desire crests its trivial _biologic_ boundaries in a deeper intoxication.

"Ngn... I- I-"

"They must _love_ watching you. You're beautiful, you know? Every inch. You should _really_ admire yourself more often. But invite _me_ to uplift you, Aoko. These breasts." Cradled; not _groped_. It's not quite a squeeze. Just a graceful _cupping_. Tasting the heft, weighing them with adoring fingers.

"A-ah-"

"Mmm..." The bra's a pallor that's such a _delectable_ juxtaposition, oh so so so artful, against the shoulders the faint caramel kiss ornamenting every inch but the one-piece's geometries. Savored in its negative, its graceful silhouette along the skin. "Goddess, you're so _lovely_." Shed now like a moulting serpent; the hair is delicious, a fragrance in nebulous fruit that rears up over the booze, the sweat, the...

The _pussy_.

Goddess, goddess, goddess, that faint presence that prickle slathering itself on the nostrils scenting the air with bestial zeal.

A quick _tug_ and the bra's shed, also, with a gasp; with huge gawping eyes. Bouncing with the simple displacement; the chest strains and the spine arches and there's still some ineffable chill, isn't there, whatever the warmth when the clothing's just sloughed off?

Very very _very_ fine nipples, oh so tiny. A sense of the surreal beside the areolae's peachy platters. Dainty little prickling points rearing up through silken immensity; voluptuous heavypulchritudinous teardrop divinity with a graceful cant that invites the fingers and hands. Fall down down down and how can you resist?

 _I give thanks for..._

Whatever.

Oh, Goddess- _chan_ , your sacrament must be obeyed!

"A-ah-"

"Oh, oh, _oh_ , you've never felt a woman's lips _there_ , have you?" Glance up with mischievous madness. It's with a dancer's elegance and, _my_ , what a coincidence.

I am.

A sway.

A quirk of the lips; a cock of the hips. Slip a fingertip under _my_ shirt's hem and it's with a slow languorous grace that it's just eased up oh oh oh _so_ faintly, Eurodisco hammering its regular hot wet cadence through the mind's stereo.

 _Ra-ra-rasputiiiin!_

A shame. It really is. How he carried on.

"Ah, ah, _ah_! Hey, d'ya still dance, Ayumi?" And that would be Yumi as the compulsory peanut gallery.

"Oh, _yes_. But I'm a _little_ busy." Half-knelt; the spine's long slow sinuous arch and palms adoring her now. Fingers sink into luscious skin and they are _very_ large. A bit tinier than Ran's. The athleticism's more obvious; abdominal definition rears up into a stern relief through the taut belly cinched in graceful muscle along its ambit.

A swimmer's sinuousness.

The arms' strength lean and fine and not Ran's karate brutality but something altogether a bit _gentler_? Not weak; no, no, no. But not with an enthusiasm for reducing brick to dust as a simple pastime. And down down down; knelt with fingers finding purchase on the skirt.

A tug and her body is melting, also, the ankles swaying twisting in their poise in the kitten heels.

And now, now, that would be a nuzzle. Cheek clasped in sweat against her belly; stain her, stain her, _adorn_ her, _**anoint**_ her, my makeup something indelible in its airbrushed elegances. Swallow a thick heavy _wad_ gathered in the throat and it's not with will but clamoring that her eyes have fallen down to admire the impossible.

A kiss lavished on the navel's fine tight divot.

"Ah!" A yelp; a chirrup; a squeak. Kiss and kiss and kiss up and up and up and they're so close, aren't they? A destiny to tease, to torment. Cruel to be kind.

And _very_ kind to be cruel. Right? Oh, yes, yes, yes. You and me, you know. A _lap_ ; tongue creeping wending meandering not quick flitting licks not even prolonged strokes but simply a palsied dog's, lolling outstretched with a fervor for tasting every _inch_. Every mote and morsel consigned with assiduous attention to indelible memory.

And every lovely reflexive quirk and chirrup and the strange chattering pitches pluming from her lips.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Hah. Hah. Hah. Hah!" With a tongue dipping into her navel; the tension, the shallow fragile groove carved into the belly's bedrock strength. And up and up and up and palms _slapped_ on her hips now.

A firm purchase for the lips' grace finally finally _finally_ settling against one of the heavy delicious breasts.

The sweet soft skin.

Enchantment; the perfume in a woman's sweat.

"Aah... Ah... Ah, Ayu, Ayu, it's... It feels so good. You're so gentle-"

"Ngn... That's what girls _are_ , y'know? It doesn't even need to be sweet an' soft an' syrupy. It can be rough and brutal but we still know, right?" It's what's _not_ touched; it's the lingering attention lavished on the supersaturated sensitivities in the belly, the hips, the thighs' graceful roundness.

Fingers tucked into her tights and it's a jerk.

A tug.

Pull down down down _down_ and there's epiphany. There _are_ no panties; there's nothing but bare flesh and it's absolutely wholly dazzlingly completely _exposed_. A girlishness; a childishness, almost, in that glabrous tight skin. Even the pussy's peachy lips tighter than Ran's. A sense of something like neglect.

But the shimmering dewy zeal could only be _that_. A woman's; forever uniquely a woman's.

Shivering with a finger's playful graze oh so so so _so_ near. A thigh creased; it's still a billion miles from her.

"Ngn... It feels so good; so good-"

"No one teases ya like this, huh? Oh, it's _delirious_. It's nice to just dive in. Sometimes. But _this_ is even perfecter, right?" A more perfect...

Everything.

"It is; it is; it is." More than _enthusiasm_.

It's orgasm. A slow and plodding and serpentine thing; it's slumping off to Bethlehem to be born. It's an indifference to all but itself.

And it's mother to all, because there is nothing in this world _but_ itself, but its exalted essence. It's bare skin and it's her adorable kitten heels and the fabric puddling around the ankles and it's a child's trembling unease and it's a woman in that delirious experience now now now not in blood but only in the elemental wisdom in the flesh.

In her pussy's slow honeyed weep; a glance down down and it can only be down and up again. The curvaceous legs that trace elegant beveling convolutions growing up up from the lissome ankles imprisoned in the thickly gathered fabric the crotch sodden stained a faint shimmering point that's coalesced heavy and wet and tremulous an almost mucilaginous locus of craving.

And up and up and the thighs are not thick not stout only _voluptuous_ , lavish with muscle and trembling now with the strength that rebels against absolutely nothing and implores only more and more and more challenge. Craves the simple surrender in lust's repression. For all to wilt; for every mote of defiance and resistance simply to bleed off into the dark.

"Hah. Hah." And it is...

Divine.

To kiss and kiss and kiss; up up up up up and the flesh must be teased and tormented. To torture her body in the most delectable gradations in elemental supersaturated desire. In the tingling shivers that scrawl up up up through sweat-drenched swaths.

The scalding sticky points that spring up along the brow over the jaw that scribe their artful rainwater meanders down down that patter with a dewy sharpness on her shoes. Urging her out of the tights and there is now the most perfect _nakedness_ in bare feet and they're eased back into her heels.

Because there must be symmetry.

"A-ah... You're... You make me feel so- so weird, Ayu."

"I hope so. That _weirdness_ , mmm... You've kissed a girl, right? And now you've kissed two? Any confessions to make before I _really_ start? Are you just _filled_ with cum-"

"G-god, no-"

"Don't use _that_ name here; it's heresy. The _Goddess_ -chan. Doncha get it? It's the _Goddess_. No patriarchal bullshit. I feel it. Feel it. Here, right? You and me? Together?" Her palm _dragged_ up to my left breast.

 _Sinking_ into the flesh.

"Your tits are so big!" Cooing it. Crooning it. It's a lunatic epiphany. It's an awareness that preconception is forever defied in reality's strokes. "I- I thought it was a bra-"

"You think I could cram a _bra_ into this shirt? And when they're _this_ juicy?" Quivering with her breath stealing over my face, not tousling the sweat but just _accentuating_ it.

"And so jiggly-"

" _Exactly_. They're just big water balloons _filled_ with the world's most delicious fat."

"Looks like all of your fat went there-"

"There's a little in my ass." A wry little quirk of the lips. "Would you like to see? Just _stand_ there." And it's to wheel away. Because, well, the seduction is a foregone conclusion. But why not a bit of madness?

Why not a delirious little tease for her? Or not so little. Not when the knees rattle like bare bone heaved into a centrifuge.

Not when the eyes have burgeoned so vastly they could accommodate not only oceans but worlds of oceans but universes and universes in these.

When there is a sway.

Slowly, slowly, and it should be, oh, why not something _heavy_?

Throbbing.

Pounding.

A tribal rhythm in the hips' slow writhe; the heels a patient regular _steady_ twist and rock and the shoulders are something precious. _Disjointed_ from the neck; a languorous ease in every undulation. Sinking down down down with palms on your knees and it's a plodding rise _up_ now, a glance cast through the hair's huge unraveled obsidian over a shoulder.

Her palms trembling on the belly's flat sleek grace.

"Ayu-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_. You should be silent. Don't want to force you to multitask when you look like you can barely even _stand_." Whisper it; every _breath_ is thunder in this place.

Subtlety's been abandoned for Yumi.

Skirt unfastened; blouse shrugged off.

There's only flesh and fabric's few fragile motes; panties and bra and _that_ is now vanishing, breasts springing into a graceful relief. They're petite and modest and lovely and oh so adorable, strummed with carnal self-satisfaction.

Self-flagellation, also, this sumptuous algolagnia in denial's delectable spice.

The top urged off off off off off and it's just _vanishing_. Breasts don't merely _spring_. They _burst_ ; _pop_ ; _explode_. Flare up up up and now, now, it's something achingly delicate. I don't care don't care don't care.

Yumi's skin and her long shapely legs cradled in tight lucent fabric half-blackened with sweat in their tawny elegance. Delirious juxtaposition against the tanned grace.

The _perfection_ in their being.

In the hunger.

Fingertips outstretched to graze at Yumi's belly; and it's a tease, stealing away with a legitimately balletic pirouette on the heels. A striptease that's definitely _nothing_ you'd expect from anything brandishing the name.

And definitely something lovelier than the anonymous sex-show sleaze in _this_ place's sense of it.

"Ah-ah- _ah_ , Yumi- _tan_ -"

"Evil."

"Oh, I _am_." This is the consensus, isn't it? The skirt's just... Whimsically cast away now; spiraling with wheeling elegance around an upraised fingertip and it's tumbling off to meaningless places.

Bare.

Bare.

Absolutely perfectly exposed.

We are candid. We. All of us. A sublime collectivity in this and it's a finger quirked at Aoko. And there's something absolutely adorable in it.

 _Who, me?_

There is incredulity.

There is not imagination's failure but its scope altogether too fucking _huge_ now. The absolute disbelief that can only be imagination, can only be reality cast away and it is to know her body at this instant, because it is mine. Not discrete points of life and lust and flesh.

A cohesion.

A holistic _awareness_. Sense scrawls and riots and rips and strains up and down up and down arms outstretched to her. Imploring, beseeching, and it's not to lie between them but only to be their axis.

Wheel and twist and pirouette and a hand urges her closer, and closer, and closer.

Heels a soft muted whisper on the floor.

Fingers steepled under the fine regal chin and there's a renewed _newness_ in this. In the flesh's aura in the heat that flares up up up in the blaze in breast upon breast, nipples whispering together with a dazzling fencer's grace.

Sharp and hot and sputtering and popping a bonfire suffused in electricity.

Her hand on a cheek.

A palm on her belly.

Down.

And down.

To _cup_.

Eyes enormous and flaring open not with incredulity but only still still still the conviction that this could really _neeeever_ ever be.

And here we are.

Mouths conjoined and tongues slipping together and you can only _gorge_ yourself on that first deep trembling urgent rich _bellow_ with a kiss of fingers. We will wreathe ourselves in the bubbling mist that plumes off from the cauldrons where our vanities and our biases and beliefs are boiled in their own juices and they have become fork-tender and must be speared, shucked of their perfumes wreathing in blue-stained curtains of vaporized cash.

A tremor; a quiver; her fingers and hands and they will settle on shoulders and pluck and pull but more than anything there is an act of simple _surrender_. It is not genuflection it is not with theological wisdom but only with a sense of epiphany. It is the humble illiterate herdsman's convulsions when the mushrooms have been tasted in their novel parched gradations on the tongue and when balls are very comfortably tripped and lo!

The shrubbery is fucking _flaming_!

Holy _Ba'al_ , dude.

No, dude. Not Ba'al. I am He Who Is Unknowable!

Dude.

That's right, dude. I am _The Dude_. I am Dude of Dudes; I am The Tyrant; I am The Ultimate. I Am He Whose Beneficence is in grass, whose wickedness is in drought. I giveth with one hand, dude, and I take away with another.

So prostrate yourself and _worship_ me.

Grovel and venerate.

 _Dude_!

Dude. I bringeth thee these... Oh, dude, I'm _totally_ baked today. Let's just call 'em _Ten_ Commandments. Sounds close enough.

Righteous. I'll just ask the Idol-

Dude. Read 'em.

Dude.

And this is the birth of civilization's comfortable numbing absolutes amongst the desert tribes in their endless rancorous prowl and troll through strange dusty places and Goddess- _chan_ has arrived with her Last Redaction.

With her Revelation.

I am become Her Conduit.

Ah, ah, ah. Stayin' alive while the rockabilly throbs and the heavy metal trembles and trammels down every fuckin' nerve but it's _disco_ that is the essence mount my disco desire, baby, yes, yes, yes, and to hell with Elvis! Nothing and _nothing_ but you, you, you.

Ring mah bell, honey.

Kiss and kiss and kiss and the murmurs and tremors and throbs in the voice are swallowed down; gorge yourself with an urgent hot wet fervor and her mouth has become a conduit to places deeper and darker and more unknowable than any other.

Cradle that overripe peach delectation. It isn't something crude; isn't to cleave it open with impatient urgent command. It's slow, slow, slow.

It's molasses calligraphy with fine horsehair brushes along ice-encrusted steel.

It is achingly elegant.

An inexpressible perfection. Clutching, cinching. The eyes flaring huge and the body has become a conduit for _that_.

For perfection's simple expression in wordless somatic eloquence. In the spine's spasm and lurch and the hips _jerking_ up up up and it's a plea an exhortation oh oh oh oh _puhleeeeaaase_.

"Please!" Whimper.

Mewl.

"Please _what_ , Aoko- _tan_ -"

"I want it. I want it. I- I haven't-"

"Let. Me. Guess." Craning closer and closer and closer. "Five or ten minutes. Fifteen? Lights out; clothes off; if you come, it ain't my problem-"

"Mean." A mewl. A whimper. The creeping sticky guava-hued mist is darker than any _lightlessness_. "Mean-"

"Reality's cruel." And that would be teeth settling around an earlobe; the left becomes the world's most delectable sense of direction with the tongue's wet flit and flicker. Nibbling gnashing _madness_. "Reality's cruel. That's all it is, Aoko- _tan_ -"

"C-call Aoko _Aoko_."

"Not even the - _tan_ \- Jeebus!" Squalling now because it's nothing so delicate. It's a barrier broken; it's the Lizzie chastity ruptured and now, now, now, who cares about the dainty wilting frailty? Because it's her hand there.

Cinching into my left breast, also. Falling down down down through the flesh the plump yielding fat and skin and it's with hunger with an impatient _virginal_ clamoring. Her knee nudging apart _my_ legs.

"You're all sticky, Ayu." Giggling cooing _insane_.

"'s 'cause I've already fucked a lot tonight-"

"You don't smell like it. Y-you smell so _fresh_. Better than... Than walking through rain." Wafting _sucking_ it all down every morsel the scent's every _corpuscle_ into her lungs.

And it's true. It's not that stale-cum-and-lust quality that becomes must but only... Only a crispness. A purification in skin and craving and hunger. All of it achingly novel and rejuvenated with every fucking instant.

A brush.

"Naughty, naughty, naughty, Ayu. D-did a guy come in you-"

"Two of 'em tonight. But if it's any consolation, I've already fucked, ah... How many girls today?" It's something so insouciant. How how _how_ many? Ah, what could it even matter?

"W-what-"

"Well, of _course_." A kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and it's fingers _cinching_ into the breast. Straining and trembling and beseeching. It's prayerful and pleading for more, more. "A-ah, oh, that's _so_ lovely, Aoko-"

"Aoko loves it."

"You ever drink cum from a woman's pussy, Aoko?"

"Aoko hasn't." Cooing; that demented saw-toothed little-girl sexuality. Quivering and tittering and it beggars belief how _implosive_ it is, reeling and twisting and crushing down between your thighs and flaring up again in convulsive explosive spurts. "Aoko _never_ has-"

"Not even yours? Never raw? Why, you've been so _deprived_." And now, now, a finger. It is slow, you understand. It _must_ be slow; coaxing a skittish kit from its den, this deed inverted, sinking, sinking an _achingly_ plodding and almost ponderous thing.

But without a moment's reflection. There should be a whisper in sticky warmth splitting apart, but it is absolute silence beside the deep low quivering guttural _groan_ mantling up from her throat when the fingertip's first achingly elegant jab _impales_ her. Deeper, deeper, deeper, that soft clefted flesh _carved_ apart.

Deeper and deeper and deeper and there's a honeyed scalding prickling quality in it. It's the ineffable essence in a woman's skin, a woman's body, and _that_. Juices in their clutching clinging effusion. An awareness of distending threads, playing out with the knuckles' graceful convolution. Slowly, slowly, these vicissitudes _savored_. A passionate relish for everything in an instant.

A breath drunk down from her mouth.

Suctioned into the lungs.

A _wail_ now with a second finger, slipping through those taut clinging lips.

"How fucking _small_ is he-"

"'s not that. 's not that. Aoko is just... Just so _tight_." Crooning it now with melodious zeal. "Aoko is _so_ tight. He says that all the time." Such _envy_ for Eri now. To taste the flesh in its deepest most fundamentally _authentic_ natural grace. It should be a woman's bliss. Not a man's. "Aoko's gonna...

"Gonna..." From that? With the eyes not even _tumbling_ closed but _soldered_ ; brazed with the lashes' quiver and flit and flutter and tension scrawls up seams the cheeks and the lips slip open with a quiet slow _aaaaaaaah_.

It announces itself with a grandeur surpassing any bellowing shrieking fanfare. It's an explosion in silence; it's a flower rippling in the fallout rushing from a distant hydrogen bomb. You would never know; you can _only_ know.

Her eyes snap open.

And the scream beggars belief. Sudden crashing crushing.

"W-aaaa-aaaah!" Ha, ha, ha, _hah_. Laughter and shivering and trembling and it's knees slipping together it's her fingers no longer so gently _tasting_ my breast but rearing up over the flesh groping kneading clutching tearing tugging her spine's spasm and her head thrown back and nothing nothing _nothing_ fucking matters but this, does it? "A-ah, ah, ah, oh, it's- it feels so good. Your fingers-"

"Yeeeees?" Coiling and twisting and now, now, it's a quick _tug_. Curling and it's a languid regular stroke up up up and down again along that plump sweet skin that spongy lush flesh and it's to urge her guide her away away away from the wall. Yumi's an obliging landlord, squatting on the mattress and just mantling up to its head, thighs splayed and her pussy is _more_ than drenched.

Huge hot coils are stirred and unfurl and furl again along her left thigh, stroked and stoked with the fingers' unpretentious voyeuristic bliss.

"A-ah, oh, watchin' you two, it's just... It's _incredible_. Girls in heels are. _The_. _**Best**_." A glance cast to her and the only finer point is girls in heels _and_ stockings. A high high high heel rocking to and fro with her leg's prolonged languid lift and it's so fucking knowing, this achingly elegant tease.

Aoko simply splayed out over the mattress now. The eyes invite, entice, and how can you not adorethis? How can you be so cruel that you won't genuflect and venerate and _worship_? Lips' soft grazing stroke along a knee; tongue flitting up up up over a lovely luscious thigh.

"A-ah!" And to taste the scrawling sensual wisdoms in the spine's arch; in the dancer's or at least the very very _lissome_ wriggling athlete's grace in the legs' tremor in the fingers' rip and tug and tear at the bedding and she's more than only _drenched_. And tighter than _tight_. The words are meaningless, absolutely perfunctory.

Lace up up up and down again; cradle an ankle and the tongue lolls out to taste taste taste the sumptuous sweet sweat-kissed skin and there can only be the eyes' hugeness blazing open and plunging closed and it's something febrile. A fever-dream madness when Yumi's no longer a long-legged audience no longer the stockinged peanut gallery but _intruding_ into this idyll.

" _Hiya_." Oh so garrulous. Jubilation when the lips frosted now in a creamy strange gloss _whisper_ against a cheek, sticky and thick with it. "Y'know, I never _really_ thought I'd see something like this, Nakamori- _san_ -"

"A-Aoko. Call Aoko _Aoko_." It's a fugue state psychosis; it's a bubblegum-wet sublimity when you're finally finally finally _there_. Gnash and gnaw and nibble up the curvaceous bare thighs and her heels yield a long ragged _rasp_ when they're dragged with a berserk sudden spasm across the bedding and we are, of course, all friends here.

Right?

"Call Aoko _Aoko_ , Inspector Miyamoto-"

"Hah! Inspector? Talkin' about _Big Sis_?" How can you not jeer with a braying bliss between her thighs?

"Shush, you." Yumi's long sleek fingers _rip_ through the hot sticky air. "No talking shit about her boss in _front_ of her-"

"B-Big Sis?" Naïve dreamy delirious eyes gawp and gawk.

"'s nothin', all right." So _shy_ , huh, Yumi- _tan_?

"Oh, don't be so _shy_. Why, when'll you be getting your horimono-"

"Oh, don't make me discipline _you_ , honey." A glower that's as menacing as a dyspeptic puppy.

"Oh, oh, _oh_ , 'm just _waiting_ , Yumi- _tan_. Big Sis, Big Sis, don't make me give you my little finger! I need it for _this_." And an achingly patient graze _there_ ; between the lips.

"A-ah, ah, _ah_!" Dappling stroking a quick flit up and down up and down along that taut cinching clef. "Ah, ah, ah, I- you're both so... So _much_ ; too much. You're both driving Aoko _crazy_!" How delicious she is in every wriggling heave and shudder and jerk. Her toes straining in the cute kitten-heeled shoes; her hair fanned in a huge sweat-lacquered sheet over the mattress, bathing her and she bathes it, also.

Tremors that riot up and down every inch.

Calves sleek and slender and _tight_ in their twanging muscular definition; and _there_.

"Mmm... I'm _very_ hungry, you know, Aoko." Creep up up up. Fingertips steepled on fine adorable knees. Even her _knees_ are cute. 's fucking incredible. Miraculous. While Yumi's lips slathered with that demented vanilla-créme gloss simply wander and wheel along a tawny cheek.

"A-ah, ah, you're both so _close_ -"

"You should pay attention, y'know, Aoko." Yumi's voice deeper, huskier. "Or else an opportunist like Ayumi'll just _eat. You._ _ **Up**_."

"Oh, perish the _thought_ , Yumi- _tan_ -"

"Yeah, right. You're already about to eat her alive-"

"Well, that _is_ true. Got me, detective. Dead ta rights." Yow. With one of Yumi's heels _grazing_ a shoulder; with a quick _jerk_ and now now now it's not only closer but with the universe melting down into a haze of _Aoko_. They're so fine.

Almost childish, those lips clenched closed with adorable affectations of innocence, even while juices dribble out sumptuous...

Oh, oh, oh, that _treacly_ romance novel shit.

But it's true.

Women _are_ flowers.

Some of them, anyway.

This is her nectar. Luscious and sloppy and still oh so _dainty_ ; fingers there and now, now, now, the first kiss and the first kiss is always the loveliest, isn't it? 'cept for the second or fiftieth or millionth. And there is a kiss and it is very very _very_ deliberate a hot and graceful brush of the mouth against her.

There is a silence that is the quietude that must be companion to the earth's end, to the planet's ruination, not to mankind's artifice not to The Bomb but an epoch-ending cataclysm, Mother Nature stirring from her dreamy torpor and shrugging off cities and towns and villages and even mountains our every fabrication our every bit of hubris in the technological in the architectural in the scientific is meaningless.

A slow saurian blink.

Mmm? That asteroid?

Yeah, that was a bit of a tickle, huh? How about I finally scratch that fucking _itch_ named North America? Ah, ah, ah, that was nice, but there's a tingle in Eurasia and... And what's that, Europe? When you start, you can't stop.

And now a gurgle.

Strangled.

Throttled in her neck.

"O-oh, oh, _oh_." Glance up and it's for eyes to pour together in heavily-lidded madness; in the lashes' wreathing obsidian universe. A kiss becomes two, and those two become four, and those four become fifty, because why the fuck _not_? Quick cadences like a butterfly's wings tethered to a hummingbird's heart and the dampness is now a waterfall in its sodden perfection and fingers have risen up to bracket the lips that become a mouth, finally peeled open in that graceful tumbling convolution in the concentric.

Wheeling down deeper deeper deeper that guava-stained perfection and the only word is pussy-pink because, well, that's exactly what it is. Deep and dark and inflamed and now, now, there is the first long slow _lap_.

The kiss deepens; it is now very absolutely emphatically _French_ , and it's nonsense, 'cause the French have never been synonymous with romance with passion with anything but questionable hygiene in anything but the terminally befuddled's sentimentalist eyes. This is a delectation that can only be as it is.

Feminine.

Womanly. Her palms not slapped on pert quivering tits but monopolized now with Yumi's, because we are, of course, desperately exuberantly girlish and there is a _girly_ sublimity in all of this. It is a Sapphic critical mass because Sappho was not only poetess and Lesbian but also nuclear physics progenitor. It can only be, really, can't it?

Because the bodies in their communion _roil_ with a heat transcending their native boundaries. The toes curl and tremble and now, now, tug that lean elegance around my throat, _ooooone_ leg, and a _seeeecond_ -

"O-oh, oh, oh, you're eating Aoko alive!" Cooing down at me; there's awe and astonishment and the eyes _demand_ an uninterrupted vantage upon this. Not to shoulder away Yumi, but the clutching lips have been stilled because _this_ is more urgent while the long long long legs wilt with a boneless jelly-quivering debilitation a heart-still _fanaticism_ for this instant to be prolonged for all eternity over my shoulders.

The heels rasp and sigh over bedding; thick patent leather whispers.

And there is a deep heavy huge _guttural_ growl at the tongue's first _flit_ into those coils.

There are no words.

Why bother?

And now, now, Yumi's mouth has become more urgent, clamoring and pleading and it's a kiss, kiss, kiss, stolen absolutely _robbed_ from Aoko's lips, and who can complain? To be wreathed encircled consumed and hands slip over soft hot skin, Yumi's and Aoko's at once; fingers sink into tits and nipples are plucked and quirked and twisted and pulled and there is voice and breath and ultimately, ultimately, there can really be no language at all.

Who cares?

I do not. Hungering, hungering, _feasting_ between Aoko's thighs. To know the simple mawkish perfection in a woman absolutely _undefiled_ with a man's lusts and it is perhaps altogether too much to call it poison but there's a _rot_ in a man's desires. A confluence of the man and woman and it is never so dreadful with Eri at all.

But even still, there is only Aoko. Not even a rubber's greasy scent, because the time's void is much much much too great. Her. It is only her and I am more than enchanted. I am obsessed with this; I am already an admirer that will become a stalker. I will gorge myself on her every quirk and twist; I will feast on the eyes and the lips and the body and the legs tremble and strain and it's _explosive_ , racing up from her mouth.

"Aoko is _cooooming_!" And going and already here again with the lips stealing up and there's a closeness now that is all patience all restraint just cast off. It isn't a delicate distance, no, no, no. It's cheeks slapped between thighs crunching closer and it's to know the body's long tremulous tremendous muscular shudders and jerks and it's being pulled nearer and nearer and nearer dragged against her pussy that's become a whirling smear in those juices in spittle threading into her hunger her honey.

"A-ah, ah, eat Aoko more! Aoko needs to get _totally_ devoured! Eat me! Eat me! F-fuck Aoko with your tongue, Ayu- _taaaan_!" Quailing garrulous _adorable_. Yes yes yes.

With legs thrashing with little-girl frenzy and this is _not_ a little girl.

" _Goddamn_." Yumi's eyes are _more_ than huge. "You're a fuckin' sexual _animal_ , Aoko-"

"Aoko is! Aoko is _so_ horny she can't take it anymore! Aoko needs it! Aoko wants to squirt like- like she can when- when you put something _big_ in her!" Damn. Damn. Damn. "Aoko wants a toy-"

"How 'bout _these_?" Mischievous; three fingers slipped together and it's something miraculous. The tension doesn't slacken and doesn't grow and she'd be mercilessly tight with a fucking _watermelon_ jammed between the lips, wouldn't she? Stroking and stroking pulling peeling fingertips eased with slow delicate strokes across that delicious soft skin and...

And...

"Waaah! Y-yeah, yeah, yeah, touch Aoko like that!" And what the hell can even be _said_? Fingers monopolized with her; tongue flitting at, ah, Little Red Riding Hood, and how can we not? We are the heavy metal offspring of a crazed and hedonistic humanity, and this is our sublimest truth, choking down syrupy strychnine and feasting on arsenic in its fine sensual gradations and we will poison ourselves with lust we will destroy ourselves with hungers.

Because, well, _fuck it_.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Her pussy's more than _sweet_.

"A-ah, ah, dammit, why do _you_ get all the fun, Aoko? What about _you_ , Ayumi-"

"Call me _Ayu_. It'll confuse the fuck outta me when I'm pussy-drunk like this to hear _Ayumi when you're_ _ **Yumi**_ , Yumi. Damn-"

"Ayu? Oh, _yeah_. I love that name, anyway. Ayu, Ayu, _Ayu_. Hey, hey, _hey_ , have some'a this-"

"Uh- _uh_! Aoko's gonna squirt her head off soon!" Aoko's jealousy possessiveness her absolute _narcissism_ is the lover's ideal for a woman. Squalling and squealing and when it finally arrives it's not with a scream but with a giggle that rears up along heights totally fucking _mountainous_ , a quailing trail rattling up up up to surmount Everest.

Waaaah! Wah ha ha hah!

Yeah! Yeah!

"Yeah!" Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. Teasing and coaxing and it's just... It could probably grind bone into dust to make your bread, Jacky-boy. It's fountaining up, also, while the pussy's coils strain serpentine around clutching fingers and it's something unpretentiously selfish. No warning.

No demand, _Ah, ah, ah, it's coming, so you should get outta the way if ya don't wanna get wet, people in the first few rows!_

It'd lurch out to the _last_.

Huge.

Not merely the familiar _squirt_.

Not those sleek slick greasy threads, a man's hungers denuded of the alchemical crassnesses in _life_ conveyed through this. It is a woman in its exclusivity, syrupy and honeyed but with only the tiniest _kiss_ in a briny quality like ammonia and it's a fuckin' geyser.

She is not too drunk to fuck.

Too drunk too drunk I am _intoxicated_ with her; I am _adorned_.

Splashing heaving _curtaining_ me in a great dewy dappling mist and it's settling in creamy rolling threads pooling with the sweat like tears on my nose's bridge. Smeared on my lips.

"G-goddamn, she gave you the _biggest_ facial I've ever seen-" And Yumi's eyes, huge and gawping and transfixed with the new air-brushing swept over every _fucking_ _ **inch**_.

"Oh, _yeah_? N-not bigger than Eri- _san's_ -"

"I stand corrected." Yumi is also drunk, delirious, and _not_ too drunk to fuck. Women cannot be 'til we're just _crumpling_. No whiskey dick. No, no, no.

"O-oh, fuck, call up Er- _sensei_. M-maybe she'll show us how ta do it." Oh, yeah, _that's_ realistic, Yumi. The eyes are huge and giddy. "M-motherfucker, you're totally creamed-"

"Yah! D-don't keep goin'; not right now. Aoko's gonna _die_ if she comes again." But it's not slumping off to some solipsistic sexual coma but just a _spasm_. Lurching heaving the thighs silk-sheathed iron and _ground_ against my shoulders. "Aoko can't take anymore-"

"Then _gimme_ some." How can Yumi be resisted? And it's delirious, this _bliss_ in being not tyrant and not slave and submissive but only at a carnal whorl's core and it is a fucking sexual _tornado_. Yumi _wiggling_ closer, closer, closer, with the round hips' twist and rock and it's absolutely delectable.

Bare, also.

"Since when are _you_ shaved, Yumi- _tan_? Or is it wax-"

"Wax. G-goddammit, you're fucking _incredible_ , Ayu. I- I'd almost think you're someone totally _different_ tonight." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Mouths bleed together in my gloss and hers and it's strawberries and cream and she's more than sweet more than fucking _delicious_ with the grass, with the opium, with cheap wine and booze and... And whatever else.

With Aoko.

"A-ah, ah, ah, _IIIIII_ want some, Ayu-"

"Get it yourself, Yumi- _tan_." Bitchy bratty it's an invitation to a woman's fingers on the throat to the palm's _crack_ on your cheek, but fuck _that_. It's not the moment for it. It's a pout a sulk a clamor a beg an _eeeverything_.

"Ah, ah, ah, _pweeease_." Damn, that's adorable. Kiss her and kiss her and it's tits dwarfing hers it's a sense of women's bodies in their fundamental symmetry in their apartness. It's _pouring_ over her; swallowing her; it's her muscle in protest rioting rearing up a martial artist's strength because this is the Organized Crime goon's life their ambit strength in its sudden explosion and I am not tempest-tossed heaved on my back and there's no resistance at all.

Her fingers not daggering not tearing not spearing but just _slipped_ with such delirious delicious _ease_ there.

Between the lips.

Sinking sinking sinking like the fucking _Yamato_ ; stricken and pulled into those waters and there's only heat and fervor and hunger and I need need _need_ it.

"Y-Yumi! Fuck!" It's orgasm.

Immediate.

Convulsive.

It's legs thrashing and it's your head not only thrown back but you know there're at least two or three slipped discs in the offing and who fuckin' _cares_? It doesn't just gather patiently between the thighs burbling bubbling and rearing up but it crystallizes into sticky sweet RDX and it's fucking _bristling_ bruising every inch tasting the sexual brisance.

You are _breaking_.

You do not care.

Shuddering shaking apart you're the _Columbia_ you're the _Challenger_ you're the _Bismarck_ you're the _Arizona_ you're the _Yamato_ and her sexy sister ship massive cannons to absolutely no avail 'cause gravity's embrace and the explosive trembling thunder just. Fucking. _Soars_.

"Fuck! Fuck! Yumi!" Jerk. Flare. "Get the _fuck_ over here." There can only be _this_ ; on your back and no longer the dominatrix and definitely not the subordinate just _hungry_. Everyone hungers; everyone pleads begs implores. Everyone falls together.

It's now not only Yumi; not only Aoko.

Not our bodies _apart_.

Tits' soft satiny _plumpness_ graze arms and it's to be their axis; to be sprawled over your back and simply _encircled_.

Oh, oh, oh, it's an irresistible invitation to burning oblations to _Goddess-chan_.

There must be tribute offered.

I will lavish her with scalding flesh in communion, in delectable confluence. Aoko's lips and Yumi's and mine and it is not to become a collective being but only to be a jellyfish, a creature that is neither its complete sum and not absolutely _apart_ , either. I am become her and she is become me and us us us we are _all_ together and still, still, thighs crease thighs and breasts heavy and luscious and _delicious_ and thick pebbled nipples stripe and torture and it is _all_ anguish.

Crave every other fucking _instant_. A cold cold cold febrile thrall and it is still to be conscious of the heat while it transmutes itself while it laces up up up through every inch while muscle shudders and trembles and twangs and _jerks_ and lips are pulled to lips and hands are eased between sleek soft thighs and it, well...

It's inevitable, isn't it?

To garland the mattress in your grace, in your hunger?

"A-ah, ah, ah!" Straddled; consumed. It isn't quite that most delectable geometry, but oh oh oh _so_ near. Yumi Yumi Yumi urged higher and higher and now, now, it's a play-pretend irrumation, shapely legs _quavering_ while her high high heels find purchase in the fabric and they _dig_ , claim a firm poise, and it's a quick urgent _lurch_ against the lips and my universe is her flesh is her hips is the soft skin is the hairless perfection and the glabrous heat between my thighs, well...

How delirious.

How sumptuous.

"Ah, ah, ah, you taste so _sweet_ , Ayuuuu! Aoko _loves_ how Ayu tastes." And it is not only to taste but to feast, fucking _maul_. It's the awkward inexperience in virginity and it's still absolutely meaningless, 'cause this is woman's birthright. Lap and kiss and lick and lick and lick and it's impersonation and imitation and it's also simply your own body in reflection in a twisting splintering mirror and it's thighs not dragged over her shoulders but split apart with slutty exuberance and it's Yumi, also, fingers urgent and _ravenous_ lacing through hair pulling pulling her ass wriggling knees straddling my shoulders against the pillows heaped up against the headboard in its vast thickly lacquered tiki-tiki gaudy fuckin' convolutions and her ass is a graceful rasp and shiver and sigh and her pussy is something _succulent_.

" _You_ fucked t'day, too, didn't'cha, Yumi- _tan_?" Murmuring between her thighs; adoring the gradations in flesh and fabric the sweat so _thick_ that it's become water, dampening blackening the hosiery.

"A-ah, ah, yeah, yeah, _yeah_. He was _good_ , too-"

"Tell me his name-"

"'s Heiji- _kun_." Whoa.

"Ah. Fuck. Kazuha-"

"Why d'ya think I _could_? She was _so_ fuckin' horny, I could barely believe it. Maybe 's somethin' in the water." Or maybe the Candyman visited _her_ , also. Oh, well. "They were- were sooo- soo- sooo, oh, oh, _fuck_ , I'm gonna come. I wish I could squirt _my_ cum all over your face, Ayu-"

"Try it." A finger; a second; a third. "D-damn, you're _thick_ with cum." It's burbling up, out, heavy faintly greasy smears on the palm and snapped up with ravenous lips and suddenly, suddenly, it's something almost cinematic.

Reality _dies_.

Sight.

Sound.

Texture.

Presence.

They die a death without dignity and without ignominy. It's snapping off a tee-vee. No Signal. 'cause it's... It's not even beginner's luck but an intuitive Sapphic ease and it's Aoko's fingers and her mouth in the most sumptuous confluence and the scream tolls reverberates unheard in anything but Yumi's _goddamn, that's loud!_

Wailing it.

Lips rubbery and trembling and distending and now, now, it's Yumi's hands _crunching_ down pulling pushing forcing and...

And it isn't enough. It isn't _nearly_ fucking enough.

"Les' make it a _real_ daisy-chain." It is my command, because it must be. On shoulders and wheeling stitched together in flesh upon flesh upon flesh and it is thighs cradling cheeks it is muddled sonic befuddlement melting together it is...

It is her.

It is Yumi's thighs twisted around my cheeks it is mine upon Aoko's and it's to know their simple elemental _elegance_ in these delirious giddy dazzling geometries. Their bodies; their hands; their fingers and nails and lips and mouths. It is heat upon heat upon heat and it is to become a great and glorious reactor burbling with cesium and radium and uranium and plutonium. We are heavy-metal beauties and the hearts hammer on the ribs like an anvil pummeled under a hydraulic press 'til _nothing_ matters at all.

Tongue rolling out and lapping and licking and sticking and stroking and fingers slithering sliding gliding up up up through that hungry bare pair of lips and _mine_ is devoured and it's to admire Aoko's pussy mauled through the curtaining hazes in hair, anthracite and auburn; through the thighs enameled in gauzy nylon.

Bliss.

Its _scent_.

Its perfect native perfume. Its girly lavish delectation and its elemental hungers and it is hair tugged and pulled and jerked and strained and it is toes curling and an awareness of muscle in its displacement shuddering clenching around the cheeks _squeezing_.

Crushing.

Tearing.

Twisting.

A collective arching frenzy and it's her body it's Aoko's it's this this this this this head not thrown back but only a great convulsive shivering shuddering madness it's fingers biting into her it's the ass cradled and clenched it's _bodies_ it's _flesh_ it's meat and bone and blood hammering pounding pummeling it's _her her her her her_.

Whichever her, hah, it's less than meaningless. It's to reach out fingers at Aoko and Aoko's find purchase on me and there's nothing like restraint, because there can be none. Tug and pull and twist and it's now not Yumi but Aoko because we must wheel and twist and shiver shiver shiver with a febrile thrall that's curtained in a sweat heavier than a marathonist's and...

And it _is_.

Quavering and not settling back but only with jaws wrenched open swallow swallow _swallow_ the nearest likeness to deep-throat madness that this delectable poetic recitation of Sappho's sainted wisdom could ever aspire to capture.

It is divine knowledge; it is a universe wrought in pussy it is to know the hips and thighs and lavish sleek softness it is now shoes slipped away because there must be toes trembling and clasped against skin and toe-tips swatting and battering and her body becomes mine and mine hers, also.

Yumi's mischievous lips wriggling with her tongue's quick flit around soft skin; nipping and nibbling at ankles and rearing up and up and up higher and higher and mantling the body and it's eccentric geometries it's being urged upright to stand to stand because you are the dancer because your hips invite this because their hands claim purchase on flesh that is not communal property but theirs theirs _theirs_ because it is given.

Yumi's face buried against that overripe peach elegance, nuzzling nipping _devouring_ , that pucker still drooling Kogorou's cum and every _morsel_ tugged and torn out and swallowed and tasted and her tongue spearing deep and Aoko's quiet strange little coos and babbling bits of nonsense it is her nails spearing into thighs her face _vanishing_ between my thighs in lavish gradations of squelching tongues and sputtering spittle-slick kisses and her hair's heavy auburn grace ruffled and tousled and _torn_ tugged _heaved_ closer and closer and closer 'til reality simply implodes upon itself with a roar that fissures the very sun and moon.

Their kisses frenzied and wet and their bodies united, also, thighs tangled together and that urgent clenching tension in a perfect symmetry in that feminine kiss that could never accommodate a man never ever ever ever and it's...

Melting down, down.

Their spines gelatin finally just dissolving.

Their arms splayed out.

Gasping shuddering a quick convulsive _jerk_.

And the refrain on my lips.

"More, right? You and me and..." It's more than debility.

Aoko's eyes flitting to and fro and finally just settling behind wilting lids.

Yumi's fingers spasmodic and the body absolutely _still_.

"Damn." There is, of course, only hunger.

A wish for the words all-you-can-eat. It must be found elsewhere. Steal out into the night, Yumi's stockings appropriated, 'cause why the hell not? Damp and satiny with her sweat.

Perfumed with _us_.

And it is to be cleansed. More and more and more; a carnal _reaction_. An act of nuclear transfiguration, a metabolic vicissitude that is evolution's essence condensed into a spiritual eternity billions and billions of years in a night.

The hips' swing and the eyes' predation.

 _More_.


	5. Are You Experienced?

The night steeps and slops and sluices over the shoulders and not with water's insouciance over a duck's ass, oh, no, no, no. Sodden with the smoke still burbling up through your lungs in silent pageantry, unseen untasted but not _unfelt_ , it's a relentless pattering water-torture. It's the unreality in being amongst humanity at twelve-oh-whatever, or maybe it's one, or maybe it doesn't matter at all.

But there is a funerary procession crammed into the train. Mourners in their multitudes, tears and laughter and a garrulous heaving drunk-stained frenzy and there's sake brandished in its bottles without anything like compunction and the transit patrol's eyes are leery but there's a pageantry in this, isn't there? There is a decorum. Old worthy ladies wilt against stern square-jawed gentlemen and there's already a great heaving babel rearing up amongst them.

 _Ah, ah, ah, I knew him when-_

 _Well, y'know, he wouldn't've wanted to go like that-_

 _Don't you **dare** tell-_

 _Oh, will you two-_

 _Chattering hens! Why doncha show some respect, goddammit-_

Talking. Talking. Talking. There are dice now rattling on the floor because three of the men are crumping down onto their knees and there's a giddy childish chirruping between them.

 _Where they step, nobody knows! C'mon, c'mon!_

 _Always loved playin' this game with ol'-_

A shudder. The train's passage is in a languorous rock and sway. Not the high-speed but one of the local connections and it's public transportation's essence. A certain controlled madness and the control is the madness, you see, 'cause the madness it's controlling is something as natural as the guy whose hands are outstretched and there're guests flopping back against the windows while a huge spittle-flinging rush spurts up out of his rubbery lips and he serenades like a jet airplane.

 _Whoooooosh! Whooooooosh!_

And now there's the pursuit. A clatter and rattle of indistinguishable feet in indistinguishable shoes and it's more than a little jarring for the eyes to open from a blink not in bleariness not in drowsiness but only the simple mechanistic _need_ to see that there's absolutely nothing _but_ these unreal dolorous penguins. The women alike; the men alike. Vistas in homogeneity and some dude's clattering past now with a _whee-ooooh wheee-ooooh_ , an airborne traffic patrol.

They're both probably eighty-six.

Poodles nose about in languid flit and drift, not in flight so much as comfortably untroubled with gravity, the sticky hot air stagnant in the chambers even with windows flung open to the night stirred with their paddling paws. A snout grazes a shoulder.

Glance through the window and a guy's slung from his own necktie from a railroad stanchion. Not in suicide; only sober and serene rest, arms wound around his chest.

A quick nod in mutual recognition. He's my fifth grade English teacher, whose command of the language was so fine that he once visited New York, and never recovered from the experience. It was, after all, in Caldwell County, Missouri.

And there is a shudder. A sudden violent convulsive _spasm_ and there's a sense of turbulence. Bodies stirred and disturbed on the line and half of the mourners simply slither through the window with a bouncing dolphin grace, lubricated in tears and liquor and it's not absolute aloneness but there's only an instant-onset quietude.

The transit cops' boots are a heavy clomping passage down the aisles, hands outstretched in scabrous calfskin gauntlets to capture your tickets.

 _Tickets! Tickets! Tickets! Let me stamp your hand, little boy!_

The children are to be wrenched from their seats with quick nimble fingers and introduced to lap-sprawling convulsions, an arm drawn back and the women will applaud and photography will be captured by the cyclopean figures percolating and pulsating with strange and unknowable imagery in sulfurous negative across the faces while this rite of passage is tasted.

 _Kill the pigs. Kill the pigs in their sties, and eat the farmer's wives._ Amen.

This is our refrain, hands slapping down on the children's asses while a great raucous yowl rears up. The housewives applaud.

This is why they have paid their seventy Euros for the tour.

We are all ornamented with cameras. Slung around our necks and we must capture the children's precious moments while their trousers are jerked down and quick wet telegraph rattles in iron-sheathed palms tattoo themselves across their creamy asses now scalding scarlet.

Slap-slap-slap.

Again and again and again.

"A-ah, ah, I'm sorry, Big Sister." Big Sister? What _formality_ ; peer down at the timid eyes and the pursed lips and the simple lean lissome elegance. She is _very_ adorable, isn't she? A height that's not quite tiny but it does not crest even _average_. Five-six, probably. Slim and willowy and there's an immediate enchantment with the face in its proportions. The fine nose and the regal jaw and the high high high bones.

You could swoon from them; heave yourself with a high-diver's grace with a zeal to accentuate your _worthiness_ for a kiss from those ruby-lacquered lips.

"Ah, ah, ah, it's _fine_ , Lil' Sis. My, what an _adorable_ lil' sister you are. What's your name?" There's an anxiety in the eyes.

A sharp agitation; the lips pucker into a half-kiss and there's a will to fulfill this destiny.

"A-ah, it's... Ah, um..." Murmuring; it's more an articulated sigh than a voice. A soft rippling little trill. A melody in the hedging and hemming and how _adorable_ this lil' sister is. Oh, yes, yes, yes. The hair in its great voluptuous _black_. A sleek shimmering wet-silk perfection, without dampness and still brilliant still effulgent an almost chitinous quality draped over the cheeks and the vast shy eyes in their heavy-lashed jet grace.

She is beautiful; made up with a subdued elegance. The chest is definitely, ah... _Something_. Something being nothing. Oh, well. Perfection isn't _always_ an ambition, is it? Is it? The hips round and lush and the legs long long long long.

A glance down and they unfurl in their lissome height; a perfection swept with stockings rearing up to the lush thighs. Beautiful. A complexion like dusk settling on desert dunes. An _exoticism_ in everything. A firmness and a softness and the shoes are kitten-heeled Mary Janes and the clothing is one of the local school's dumbass sailor-fetish _whatever_. And still enchanting.

"Oh, you're so _shy_. What a cute Little Sister you are, darling. I'm Ayumi. Call me _Ayu-nee_ if you'd like." Or just open your mouth and feast. Whichever.

Ah, ah, ah, wicked and _wanton_ deeds are already being devised.

A shudder and jerk and the carriage _convulses_ again.

Flung against me; face simply _flattened_ into my tits in cartoonish frenzy with flailing hands and palms now simply slapped on my belly and there's a jerk and shiver and it would be oh so _delicious_ merely to fold her into the flesh smother her _drown_ her with skin.

With tits' quivering luscious effusion.

Ah, ah, _ah_.

"Ah, you... Are you all right? I know they're _very_ well-cushioned." Mischievous; a glance down at the enormous and quivering eyes and the stare is something unblinking now.

Lips ripple rubbery and demented.

"A-ah, I- I'm fine, Ayu- _nee_."

"Oh, that's fantastic- ah, _damn_!" And one of the mourners is a whimsically loosed cannonball, careening ricocheting wheeling and it's a sharp _crunch_ against poor whatever-her-name-is and Lil' Sister's slapped against tits again and it's, well, very charming.

Thighs laced around _mine_.

And there's...

"Why, Lil' Sister isn't a sister at _all_! The scandillity of it all!" Swollen.

Thick. Xerxes' staff in its boisterous arrogant _presence_ jabbing up through the skirt's ruffled hem and it's something archetypal. Is there a camera, a _candid camera_ , lurking over my shoulder? Ah, ah, ah, what can it even _aspire_ to matter.

That's a hand _jerked_ between us; a firm purchase on that stalk.

That arrogant scepter.

"W-wah-"

"Wah, wah, wah, wah. Oh, oh, Lil' Sister, I'm so..." Something, something, something. A stillness now; not in the flesh that heaves up from its graceful stem tucked still into a pair of fragile gauzy panties like gossamer-draped silk. Luxuriant. It's a merciless throb.

Not a _massive_ one; remarkably modest. Not tiny, either, but it would be _comfortably_ in proportion for the beauty.

"Ah, ah, ah, Lil' Sister, _why_ would you prevaricate so? Why would you seek to inveigle your Big Sister, your Ayu- _nee_ , into such a _depraved_ figment of Lizzie intimacy when you're clearly brandishing _this_?"

"It's not my fault!" It is a wail, yes.

But not a Beluga Wail at all.

Very much a Dwarf Wail. Altogether so tiny that you could probably tuck it into a teacup and brush fingers with languid ease along its finely furred snout and savor its trill and coo and squeal.

"A-ah-"

"What?" A squeeze.

Clenching.

Sharp.

A wisdom in the flesh not simply melting into wilting ruin but there's a delectation in the heat in what isn't juxtaposition but only an absolutely perfect _symmetry_ from the panties. Fingers tucked into our adorable lil' sister's skirt and the ruffles whisper and sigh and the darkness wreathes and shelters and the penis is something so _feminine_.

Man's _one_ authentically feminine quality in its luscious roundnesses, its graceful sinuous softnesses. The sleek texture and even the veins rearing up in such _coarse_ relief can be a feminine ideal, also.

"What is it, lil' sister? What. Is. Your. Name?"

"M-Miyuki-"

"That's bullshit, and both you and I know it, Miyuki- _'mouto_ -"

"I- I-"

"You're just a degenerate, right? Chikan. Chikan. Chikan. What if I just took hold _very_ firmly of this thing and dragged it up out of your cute little schoolgirl uniform that you probably _tore_ off of some unsuspecting high school maiden-"

"No! No!" Mewling, imploring. Begging beseeching _pleading_. The eyes humongous and swallowing the universe in tandem in their very dimensions. "That's not true-"

"So you just love a bit of frottage, then, Miyuki? Oh, _because that_ is altogether so much _wholesomer_ , right?" Another little tug. A twist of the wrist and a cock of the hips and it's about, oh, a _millimeter_ from its rupture. "D'ya know what happens when a cock is _broken_?"

"P-p-please, stop it-"

"Do you? It's kind of remarkable. The corpus cavernosa's rupture just... It _twists_ out of all alignment. Warps itself into the most adorable balloon animal-"

"S-she made me dress up on the train! I didn't wanna!" She?

"Oh, _sure_. Let. Me. Guess. _She_. Your, what, elder sister-"

"N-n-no. M-my girlfriend-"

"What kinda fucking sissy _are_ you? Playing those sortsa, what?... Punishment games? Did she beat your ass in _Street Fighter_ or something-"

"Please, please, lemme go!" While the figure wiggles heaves thrashes and while _that_ delectable morsel throbs.

"Yeah, _right_." It's something... Irresistible.

Trip balls. Rape boyz. Fuck girls.

And this?

A long slow patient _stroke_ ; visceral biology is the answer.

The world melts.

Heavy metal madness; sizzling sodium tossed into rivers of mercury and the eyes wheel up and down and left and right and there's a plea an imploring heavy hot exhortation for _something_. Relief.

"W-wow." A _strain_ ; head bloating like a German army helmet against my palm. "Feel _that_ -"

"P-p-please, please, _please_ -"

"Please _what_? Do it faster?" Mischief and madness and there's a pull and stroke long and patient and there's absolutely no patience in the blood.

"Pwweeaaase!" Oh so _adorable_ now.

Childish.

Cooing and trilling and insanity flourishes. The lips twist strain warp and the face has begun to deform along the desire and there's absolutely nothing but _lust_ in the eyes hot and thick and drooling down in what should be tears and they're creamy smeared on my palm.

"Hmm... I don't _know_ -"

"I- I don't want- I don't want-"

"You don't wanna _what_ -"

"I don't wanna _come_!" Ah, well.

"Can't always get what ya want-"

"S-s-stop it-"

"Why? Trip balls; rape boyz-"

"P-please, please, please, this isn't my fault! Asami- _chan_ made me!" Oh, well, that's just _another_ point entirely, then, ain't it?

"Well, _you_ look like a _boooy_ -"

"P-p-please, I- I'm gonna-"

"Get me all messy? 's fine. Y'know what? I'll believe you if you can hold it in-"

"T-t-that isn't fair!" Panic; frenzy.

"Well, where's Asami- _chan_?"

"S-she-she'll punish me if-"

"Oooooooooh, Aaaaaaaasami- _chan_!" It's a bleat now. Warbling through the rattling carriage, leaden with the mourners' senseless yammering. Tears and giggling and laughter.

 _What an old fucker. I'm glad the bastard's gone._

 _I hear he **really** loved little girls._

 _Little boys, too._

 _Ew._

"Aaaaaasami- _chan_! Your wayward little sister _reaaaaallllly_ would love to see you! Why, she's about to have an accident-"

"P-p-please, please, don't do that. Don'tdoitdon'tdoit-"

"Oh, you're just _so_ fucking cute. What about a lil' kissy, Miyuki- _tan_? C'mon." Down, down, down. Craning twisting a slow sinuous elegance and how achingly beautiful she is. It's true; _she_ more than _he_.

Oh so adorable.

But there's still that invitation to punishment. To cruelty; to the lash and the palm and to simple elemental _necessity_. Boys are to be disciplined for being boys. Fickle meaningless _senseless_ arrogant solipsistic things.

A swat on the cheek now.

Incredulity hot on the beauty's flesh; supersaturated rich ruby.

"W-what're you doin'-"

"If you scream loud enough, maybe your Asami'll come and rescue you-"

"A-Asami, c'mon!" It _is_ a scream. Plangent and piteous but still that oh so _luscious_ breathy hot chest-straining _gasp_. "Please, please, Asami, c'mon! T-there's-"

"Who the hell are you?" Ah, ah, perhaps there _is_ an Asami. A voice; a presence. Heavy and husky over a shoulder and it's an ambition to the deep and graveling and it's about as persuasive as a six-inch mine gouged into soft earth.

"Who- ah, _Asami-chan_? T-the hell?" Well, ain't _this_ delicious? Crane around and it's not only _an Asami_.

It's _that_ Asami.

Eyes enormous.

Guilty.

That familiar smile; a flush that burbles up ricochets from freckle to freckle an ocean filled rearing up slopping over the few stippling islands ornamenting the fine face. Graceful; lovely; adult. The geometry.

The eyes more than a little abashed, falling down down down with a hope that they'll take up residence in the City of Dis.

"Asami, it's _you_? Hey, ah, where's Mitsuhiko-"

"L-let's not talk about my little brother, huh?" She _is_ oh so lovely. And now the quintessential train groper. Damn. A _professional_ aesthetic; the familiar gray suit cut elegantly over the slim shoulders and the modest but still oh so _delicious_ chest. The round hips _hugged_ with the pencil skirt scything in a tight stroke around curvaceous long long legs lambent with stockings that're a bit more flamboyant than the familiar.

High high _high_ slingback stiletto heels in black.

Black, black, black.

"So, ah, who _is_ this _delicious_ little girl-boy you've recruited, Asami? Hey, wait a minute. Isn't this _your_ high school uniform-"

"Do we _really_ hafta talk about this right now, Ayumi- _chan_?" Oh, _chan_ , now, huh?

"Oh, _Asami_. I mean, all right, I _do_ approve. Humiliating this cute little boy. But isn't it a bit _twisted_? Forcing him to commit such _hideous_ deeds. I regard chikan as an executable offense. Not only a little death, either. Look at this- this _indecent_ thing." A wrist's twist and the skirt's _whispering_ up.

The cock's adorable, isn't it? Well-defined; beautiful. Legitimately beautiful in its almost _painfully_ delicate proportions. The heart doesn't throb.

It soars.

Takes flight.

A beautiful girl brandishing such a _delicious_ thing.

You should swoon. You should melt. And there's still only the simple cognitivedissonance in this. Because it's not a uniquely blessed girl; it's a _boy_. An odious thing that commands, well, not _animus_. But discipline. This is what yields a Kogorou. A miserable paucity of discipline.

A palm brandished; a sharp scything _stripe_ on the adorable little thing's cheek and sharp eyes for Asami, also.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing with him? Is this your game, Asami- _chan_? To nurture a future generation of degenerate chikan-"

"C-c'mon, Ayumi- _chan_." Recoil; backpedal. "It's just a game-"

"A-Asami- _sama_ , please!" Warbling tormented it's the adorable lil' Miyuki- _tan_ 's exhortation. "She- she just... The train bounced and I just fell against her and- and she-"

"Miyuki- _tan_ here simply _smothered_ herself in these titties. You know them well, don't you, Asami- _chan_? Your cute little brother, also. Mmm... Too _bad_ it's never been both of you at once." With warmth seeping deeper and deeper still through the cheeks and staining the fucking _bone_.

And this, also.

Hotter than hot; scalding on the palm a quivering ruby-gemmed scepter.

"Oh, _well_ -"

"I- I was just playing a game with, um, with _Miyuki_ , all right-"

"A game? Was that the chikan game? _Heaving_ this naughty naughty _dirty_ thing at every top-heavy beauty that will just obligingly fulfill all our preconceptions? Who will recite the Big Lie with unpretentious genuflection?

"Well, _I_ am not one of 'em. Oh, no, no, no! I am _not_ one to just mewl obligingly and fantasize about Margaret Thatcher."

"It's not that, 'kay, Ayumi? It's just- I wanted to play a game with Miyuki. We do it a lot-"

"How _old_ are you, lil' Miyuki- _imou_? I can see _now_ that you've just fallen into a _dreadful_ influence."

"N-n-nineteen-"

"Oh, _Asami_." A sigh; slow and churning with that sainted cruelty called _judgment_. It is our poisonous fanaticism.

Our faces duly ornamented, even as our souls lie rotting and withering with neglect and indifference.

It is not what we are.

It is what we _must_ be.

What we will be mistaken for being in these puerile trappings these juvenile figments of respectability. The ideal that is the endlessly malleable in gradations of wealth and distinction. The degenerate lovelier than the saint with the appropriate suit and wheeled affront to Thorstein Veblen and whatever the fuck else.

"Asami- _chan_ , I'm a _little_ ashamed. Not that journalists have any claim to respectability, but a _high school student_. Why, if you weren't all criminals and blackmailers and as trusted as used-car salesmen or LDP councilmen, I'd just...

"I'd tell you it'd be _scandalous_." The scandillituminousness. "But we both know that'd be as meaningful as admonishing a pig for rutting in shit."

"Now that was just _mean_." But the laughter is reality's stamp in validation.

"It's true-"

"Harsh, but fair, I guess. But, ah... I just kind of... Thought my lil' Miyuki- _tan_ would love it. Why shouldn't she? She _loves_ dressing up for big sis Asami." Not even a _bit_ abashed now. And the lips don't quite cradle an eternity in drunkenness but there's definitely no _paucity_ of sake.

Maybe a kiss of vodka.

Not a flammable blood-alcohol, but you can only pity the poor heavy machinery.

"Hah. I'm _sure_ , Asami. And gettin' all likkered up just-"

"Makes it even more fun. But you thought Miyuki- _tan_ was a real girl, right? She _is_ a real girl. Aren't'cha, Miyuki- _tan_?" Because it is no longer for her to be spoken _of_ in these abstractions. Eyes wheel down and the funeral procession is there or isn't and what the fuck does it matter?!

Oh, oh, _oh_! The eyes! The flush staining the cheeks.

The downcast stare and the slim shoulders and the _tremors_ quaking through the fine arching spine and now now now suddenly an inscrutable bit of nonsense a quiet gurgling babel from the lips.

"Wah?" How can you not implore a bit of clarification for this _veeery_ novel tongue? To taste its kiss again on the ear.

"It's- it's nothing-" And how _abashed_ the luscious Miyuki- _tan_ is.

Oh, oh, _oh_.

But the investigator, the skip-tracer, she is _very_ savvy. A glance down at Asami's fingers and they're definitely cradling _something_ in her sleek blazer's pocket.

"What is _this_?" Snap spatter the wrist's _anguish_ a sharp urgent strain and Asami's being dipped into _my_ embrace with a deft wheeling jerk of the hips and it's something. A keychain.

Ah, ah! A remote.

Eurodisco delectation; punk-rock perfections and a delectable sexual symphony raging up from it and it is one of our beloved fixtures. This _technology_ ; technofetishery. It is magic, you understand. Theatrical incantations in pulsating tremors wrought in the invisible the unpalpable but still still the _tangible_ racing out along gossamer tendrils that have become our new reality.

We dwell in a spider's web that ain't John Calvin's.

Peer at it; at the figures; the adorable garnet heart that slips with a thumb's fanciful graze along its trail.

"A-ah-ah-ah!" Stayin' alive, y'know. Oh, _yeah_. Miyuki's palms clamped on her lips and there's a tremor and coo and shiver and shudder and _convulsion_ and there's only absolute _quietude_ as an answer. What what _what_ is this sumptuous electronic magic?

What is this _sorcery_?

Mmm.

And tug the heart down and there's silence and stillness anxious and taut and _raw_ with expectation, because the nerves have been flayed away and Mexican sled-dogs, yes, perhaps chihuahuas in their multitudes, they're lashed to a great sledge whose every _inch_ is encrusted with ragged serrated razors kneaded with the most exquisitely brutally delicious acid-stained aphrodisiac and it is Spanish Fly cranked to Eleven and they will be mushed with a sharp _ándale_! Onward!

Onward!

Ho, ho, ho!

The heart does not _race_. Since when do hearts race? No, no, no, they know no race whatsoever. Theirs is a lush and alluring and fragile pinkness.

Probably.

A quake and the knees are mere _moments_ and millimeters, also,in this strange confluence of time and geography, from imploding. From dissolving into convulsive jellied heaps into ruination. And so why not brush a thumb at the heart again?

"W-wah!" Miyuki- _tan_ 's squalls and squeals limn their own sonorous magic through the heart down down down deeper still and the eyes will blacken beyond black and the hunger will bleed through fabric that is not.

"My, my, _my_ , isn't this so _exotic_ , Asami- _tan_? What _is_ this magic?" The answer's, oh, _abashed_. Adorable; sublime. Lips a mischievous feline tremor.

An elegance twisted and teased out of some demented porno manga.

"Ngn..." Asami confers a bit of shyness in stereo now. Or is it shame? Wickeder than anything in this world. "It's just- it's a _toy_ she loves-"

"I can see _that_. You know, I've had a moment's inspiration. Miyuki- _tan_ was just _so_ worried that you'd be punishing her. But I think I'd love ta punish _both_ of you. Oh, oh, _oh_ , why! That would be _sublime_ , wouldn't it-"

"C-c'mon, Ayumi. You're being pretty brutal tonight, huh?" Is this wheedling?

Ingratiating?

 _Please_.

"Oh, I'm not bein' brutal. It's just..." A breath; long and huge and _heeeaaaaaaving_ up through the breast. Flaring breasts to _tits_. Beyond even _tits_. Explosive and vast and _humongous_. Yes, yes, yes, the most glorious of geese. "I can't help myself. This _hunger_ , y'know. Feel this." Miyuki's fingers _drrraaggggeed_ between thighs seamed with an urgent shuddering violence.

With a hunger sticky and slathering itself in vast lucent sheets over. Every. Fucking. _Inch_.

A gasp.

A shudder.

Is that...

Ah, yes, it _is_ a mewl, ain't it? Soft and cooing and rearing up to a keen when the fingers are not even _twisted_ but merely... Urged. Eased. Nudged. A puppy's snout in its nuzzling soft velvet invitation. Up and up and up and there's an irresistible and intuitive zeal in this; slipping, sighing, _impaling_. One and then two and three and the nails are lililicious and sumptuous and _sublime_. Oh, oh, _oh_ , yes.

Firmly-trimmed ornamented in fuchsia. There is a femininity transcending the word; the wardrobe the long long long vertiginous lean and lissome and simply _voluptuous_ legs the trim belly the _everything_. Stirred in the fingers' arching reaching caress.

A quiet irrepressible coo wrung from the lips.

"A-ah, ah, oh, oh, _oooh_ , Miyuki- _tan_ , you're gonna... Mmm... If you can make me, I'll reward ya, y'know?" And is that a bit of _bitchiness_ from Asami?

 _Can you make the sun rise every morning?_

"Ah... Ahn...!" It's an authentic _aaaahn_! Not quite a squall or a screech or a squeal or a wail but a sumptuous confluence in them and the funerary party, well, they have long since vanished, and the carriage is now littered with the familiar liquor-besotted salaryman detritus in their adorable penguin costumes and they are sprawled upon one another and there is an unpretentious intimacy in all of this.

Their arms laced with arms; with legs; their legs with legs and with arms and there are many heads and it's quite possible now that there's an act of deeper communion than even this, because heads have begun to roll from shoulder to shoulder.

And one salaryman's head is now nestled upon another's knee, and they are feet from one another.

There are fingers pawing at pocketbooks.

Cash is exchanged; strange scrawling inchworming figures that undulate and wriggle in their exotic gradations of hue and worth.

There are gamboling and gambling clutches of yen coins that hawk their lesser brethren into bondage and into vagabondage.

Heads are thrown back.

At once, the sky _breaks_ ; a glorious and great and explosive and _**convulsive**_ shudder and throb and splintering with lightning that reveals itself in divine mandate with Goddess- _chan_ 's imprimatur to these eyes alone. To these ears, also.

A wish to wail.

To howl.

So you will.

"O-ooooh, _fuck_ , yeah! Ahnnnn!" Trembling and tumbling back and it is to be yanked and jerked and tugged with Asami's silent conviction beside the adoring the genuflecting Miyuki- _tan_ with fingers still tethered _hooked_ into this flesh hungering and ravening and eating and swallowing and dragging her deeper deeper deeper through the labyrinthine affectations of sterility the platforms shivering with directionless and senseless vigor stained in the cold glowering light that denies and defies shadows with a child's huddling terror in the darkness and will never ever amount to anything but this.

The monsters will only be seen in their greater depth and detail and definition, and the animals will still be cloven open with our lusts.

Juicy delirium will still pour like blood through the fingers. The bathrooms are perfumed with antiseptic more intense than any hospital.

Ah! It is our novel fanaticism, isn't it? We are people wrought in wind and rain and the water is our purification, even if the water will scald the fuck out of any flesh not layered in the appropriate latex fabrics and there are fingers and hands and Asami's clutch is being twisted open _torn_ apart flayed and its innards bared.

Not quite disemboweled, but we are very very near to it. Tumble and tumble and Miyuki- _tan_ is an irresistible delectation. She is the belle de jour and she is much much much lovelier than Catherine Deneuve, but, well, blonde French women have never really done it, have they?

Do not hold me to this conviction.

But a _parisienne_ in the dark-eyed hawked-nose fragile lissome lean grace; the long fine fingers and the sharp bones and the hair like obsidian bobbed in a sternly-cut _faceted_ stroke around the chin, well, this is the craving.

And not a whore but an authentic frenzied libertine. One for whom commerce is corruption; it is not wealth or poverty in cash and capital or even in kind but it is the elemental _equanimity_ the communist decadence in the flesh being the flesh being, ah, ah, ah, but only the _flesh_.

She is delirium; she is something to be tucked not into the nostrils but savored in her fullest freshest purity and she is junk a rarefied junk and she is perhaps psilocyben, also. She is a mushroom to be plucked wholly from the soil and to take this soil into the nostrils and suck it deeply into the lungs and to know it in its fullest intimacy.

To mince through gardens wrought in rawest pharmacology, the junk still so _raw_ in the plant that the opium has not yet even blossomed that the poppies are yet even to flower and it is to fasten fingers around the elephant's trunk and wring and tug and _pull_.

"Whoa, right _now_?" It's incredulity for Asami- _tan_ and there is little reason for this but geometric fundaments. She is a rectangular object, and she cannot aspire even to be pelvis much less hip and it is something almost _cartoonish_. To behold perversion and depredation and wickedness and poverty but for innocence's fanciful boundaries to heave _this_ simple deed into distant borderlands with moral corruption.

"Mmm?" Because my fix my _works_ are to be bared brandished without anything like compunction and why bother with this purified rarefied perfection with anything as banal as a cotton when you can only simply fasten a fine band around the biceps straining with an urgent strength in relief and it is to...

To _tumble_ , you see. It is not blood pricking up through the needle that caresses the vein, a teasing little stroke that is not to answer junk-sickness' irresistible siren's song but only a joy bang's invitation. The vein does not shyly wince away like a kicked puppy but brandishes itself and there is overture with another needle.

Ah? Would you?

Would you?

Don't believe the figments the _advertising_ about addiction. Addicts are addicts for a very specific reason. Theirs is a metabolic exoticism; it is for the junk not merely to _steep_ into cells to stain and to color but to twist and corrupt.

To _become_ the junk; for a new lifeform to be birthed in this soft subjective place of animal machinery. You are no longer man or woman but junkie in this transmutation, and I am no junkie. I am no addict; I am beholden alone to the _body_. It is not a junk-sick body; it is not one that wilts in alleys and fetor without discrimination because the flesh _scrawls_ with vampiric animus to the water.

It is a purification in lust and craving and there is nothing so fantastical as the media hype because it is all a simple craving for vicarious grandeur but it is not grandiose and it is not grandiloquent and it is nothing but the elementary delirium the delight the _exacting_ sharp-boned hard-edged rock-ribbed supersensitivity in flesh that becomes monumental in its scope in its simple definition.

Every nerve surfaces.

There is transmutation.

It is to become the erogenous. Not in zones carved up; not in the Ostzone and not in the Westzone and there are not Soviet border patrols or Americans bristling with ordnance with eyes staring watchful through the Fulda Gap. I am whole again and it is _madness_.

Craving and hungering.

"You're _sure_ you wouldn't care for a joy bang? Either of you? Because it is, ah, ah, _magnifique_. This, I promise, honeys. Both of you." And there are eyes that peer with terror skittish and idiotic and dull like a cow's dim eyes from a parallel world that calls itself reality. But reality is where you're standing.

The smiles still effulgent.

And to kiss and kiss and _kiss_ Miyuki, and the joy bangs have been forgotten, and language, also, because her body is an enticement that _cannot_ be neglected and now, well, it is something so _unreal_. In this place of piss and shit comfortably and tranquilly subdued and eased away from sight, cold and shimmering in its drab porcelain fixtures, it is to be...

Overtaken.

Ah!

Ah!

At once, it is _their_ conspiracy in hungers.

In Asami's fingers laced around wrists and there is not quiescence in strength's failed challenge but only a will to offer yourself; a sublimity in Miyuki's silent coordination with her mistress and because there is a Beatles symphonic throbbing through the dreamy black-velvet places tucked behind eyes and between ears.

Because it is...

Some day.

Goddess- _chan_ 's revelation has begun to unfurl its great wings like a giant's shoulders tearing aside canyon walls. Boundaries in thought and wisdom and awareness are being effaced, twisted away. The soul's shackles have not been cast off, begone, deeeemon, but they are...

Rusting.

They will perhaps never break. But, at this instant, with Miyuki's fingers in silent urging _sinking_ into tits shuddering scrawling with electricity, with the flesh's numbness cast off shed moulted like a snake's skin, what does it even matter?

Tomorrow cannot come soon enough and it should never be here, either.

Asami's lips flavored with sake and cheap vodka and something treacly, also. Sumptuous syrupy lust and her mouth is an enchantment, and I am the enchantress, and I am being confronted with my own formulations and I am very vincible to them.

I am become this creature wrought in lust, in hunger.

Hands tug at Asami's collar; her jacket not shrugged off but the shirt unfastened, button after button after button, and now, now, the bra can simply be _opened_ , because this is a delirium, a delectation. The breasts bared and the bra still slung over slim shoulders.

Athletic without masculinity. A trimness in everything. In the lean belly and the navel's shallow dimple and the skirt is hiked up up up and it is lovely lovely lovely, to be seated with a sudden epiphany in your legs' lapse on the alabaster throne and to know Asami's thighs thighs _oh oh oh_ these fucking thighs, these thighs are made for fucking, you know, they're oh so delicious, they're bared with the skirt twisted away and it is taut on her hips and what does it even fuckin' _matter_?

The stockings bite into thighs in sumptuous symmetry; mine, looted from Yumi; Asami's; Miyuki- _tan_ 's. Miyuki- _tan_ 's clothing is something, oh, _mussed_. Tousled. As surely as the hair that spills in its great and glorious swarms around luscious crème caramel cheeks and it is to illustrate a woman's body to this pretender, this impersonator.

She will ultimately taste this mantle's truth. Lap and lap and lap and kiss and kiss and kiss and subtlety's been tossed away to join our zeal for reasoned political discourse and who can even care? My fervor for pussy will not cast anyone into a debtor's prison.

I think.

Do not hold me to this.

But I will be very kind; I will grant you outlet if there will be pussy to be had, you understand. Kiss and slaver and slather and the tongue is unfurling in its great fuchsia carpet, a velveteen mad clutching clasping frenzy, and it's to _inhale_.

Jaw cranked open and the universe becomes a synethesiac sensorial psychosis. Ah, ah, _ah_ , it's to _impale_ her. To be ridden by this professional Lady Godiva; and there is something so... So _deferential_ now in the in-drag divinity that's sprawled out with unpretentious trust in our bathroom culture's cleanliness over the floor.

Duly rewarded, because it is know what must be done. Thighs opened for Miyuki- _tan_ , and she is also desperately esurient.

She must be fed.

Ah, ah, these inconvenient beauties.

Fingers caress with awe.

A gurgle and groan and Asami is the silent conspiracy's betrayer.

"T-take down your top. God-goddammit, those tits. I want to see 'em. I really do. I'm so fuckin' wasted, and... And Miyuki's still pre-op, so it's not like there're any titties _there_." It is very, _very_ hungry, also.

And so there is a moment's indulgence.

A pull.

A _tug_.

Heels _rake_ at the tiles with Miyuki's adoring fingers on knees; steepled and caressing and, ah, ah, ah!

It is true.

Miyuki is no _pretender_.

Miyuki is no _impostor_.

This is not drag.

A salaryman's penguin suit would be drag for Miyuki- _tan_. The cock is merely an indictment against nature's cruel caprice. It is a transgression against the soul; but it is also an exercise in a sumptuous parallel irony, because there is forever the clamoring for Eri's novel somatic tyrannies.

The _perfection_ in this creation and control.

"A-ah!" A quiver and coo, because it is a very very high high _high_ heel grazing this flesh.

"Ngn..." And Asami's body is become gelatin; puddling around me. Sticky and syrupy and sweet sweet sweet and it is self-evident that there has been little compunction about savoring this fleshly dildo because the juices that spill from her are sodden and stained with a rich pungent cream.

Head thrown back to serenade with her voice's husky nasal quaver and coo.

We are alone.

Or maybe not. But who. Fucking. _Cares_?

Miyuki- _tan's_ fingers delicate. So so so sweet and fragile in their graze and stroke and they are slipping up and up and up and there is a moment plangent with a tolling wish to just set aside this fucking Lizzie grace and just jab your fingers in my pussy!

But it is transient.

Because this is sublimer still. The _patience_ in a deliberate marching cadence and it is up and up and up and it is still an invasion. But a polite and orderly and regular one.

And it is spine-melting perfection when they arrive.

When you are not stormed but simply...

Swallow them.

Deeper.

And deeper.

"You're so pretty, Ayu- _nee_." Adoring and breathless and the gasps are lavish and huge and lathering and feathery in the throat. "I..." Hunger; craving. The lips are more eloquent than the words; the eyes more poetic than the lips. "Asami- _neechan_ , will- will you and... And Ayu- _nee_ be nice to me?" Would it be outrageous to will yourself into a protean pool on the floor with them, without boundaries in your perfection?

"A-ah, ah, Miyuki- _tan_." In this strange place cool with the air-conditioning's prepackaged better-living-through-chemistry air where the preconceptions roost wreathed in cash's antiseptic nothings and where there is still heat still a huge heaving _boil_ through the flesh. When meat and bone and blood simply roil and pulsate and percolate with the turbulence coiling through body through soul when your _being_ is a disturbed mirror shimmering with sunset's hues in bronze and silver and gold and when nothing is preciouser than the asteroid that the witch-dance coaxes from the firmament in its great mist-draped skein.

It will break and rupture and we will roar and we will partake of midnight dances which will end with unspeakable rites and we will eat the hippopotamus meat and if there are no hippos, well, there are always alternatives, are there not? There are always alternatives.

Miyuki's fingers cradle flesh hungering and clamoring and they slip and slither and sluice deeper and they are water now and not quite. They are strange shapeless things; they are sheeps' shadows skulking through gloomy moors and I am very very _very_ happy to drag them deeper into my lair into the dragon's cruel scowling eyes wrought in faceted ruby. They stroke and twist and coil and pluck and nerves are lain bare now while the fingers oh so fine their studied Lizzie elegance because this is to be her destiny _tremble_.

Wheel and undulate and now, now, now, there is the long languorous _brush_. The pads in their succulent hungers. They will _pet_ ; they are here not as service and not as disobedience, either, but they _taste_ the wisdom in surrender to Goddess- _chan_ 's glorious passions. There is an awareness now. It stitches its great shuddering iron-spider's silk through us.

Once and again and again and it's to be laced closer and closer and closer and it will wheel and twist and _gouge_ through my heart, also, while the fingers tease and tremble and adore between the thighs and while flesh cradled in nylon lucent with sweat and sticky hungers drooling out the man exhausted but never ever _ever_ the women. Down down down and there is a bliss, a delight, Miyuki- _tan_ 's mouth settling on the confluence of flesh and fabric and it is to glance between machine and woman and woman and machine and suddenly no longer to understand any disparity at all.

I am not a gynoid and not a cyborg and there is nothing _robotic_ in the flesh but it is still soft machinery it is still a constellation of certitudes even in their strange misfiring cants on their unknowable axes, their warping rippling neurons and their muscle and meat and the action-reflex-action pattern little different than a shark's quick wheeling cogitation roulette: Eat or fuck or ignore? And there is only one answer, of course.

Eat eat eat eat eat to a Eurodisco cadence. Mount my bejeweled scepter, Roberto.

Miyuki- _tan_ , your fingers, your fingers, prodding pressing slipping deeper and deeper and deeper and the eyes' enormity is something that could swallow down your universe and for the most cruelly fleeting interval Asami has simply melted off into the ether and this lovely luscious collision of truth and ambition the past and present and the future, it _devours_.

"A-ah, Miyuki- _tan_ , you have the loveliest deliciousest fingers the lililiciousest fingers I- I've ever tasted. They're fine; they're so sweet. A- ahn!" Another _ahn_. Long and sharp and trilling and it is to wilt against the cool alabaster it is for legs to thrash and spasm and it is a plea for more. "C-can you _smell_ the lust's perfume, Miyuki, honey?"

"Y-yes, Ayu- _nee_ -"

"I think I'm in _loooove_. Oh, oh, oh," the love for this world, for this universe in its every vicissitude and gradation, "I think I'm in love with your fingers, Miyuki- _tan_. K-keep stirring me. Keep stirring me up. Can- can you smell it?

"There was a man there, y'know? Have you ever had a man, Miyuki- _tan_?" And there are heavy draperies in crushed-velvet carmine staining the soft dusky cheeks. "Mmm? Yes? Yes? No? No?"

"N-no. I..."

"Miyuki's so _shy_." And now, now, it is not with accommodation but only a deeper impatience that Asami's hips her long long legs her very _being_ is unraveling twisting, _wheeling_ away from a tongue that will no longer indulge her but merely knelt slipping down without a slump and it is a delirium in the enchanting legs the curvaceous hips the high high heels the Mary Janes and the slingbacks and ah, ah, ah, these words whose meaning is strange and prepackaged brain-honey and I am being _boiled_ in my own juices now.

Their lips; their lips.

Asami's tongue flitting at my left knee.

"I met her at the university." Asami's soft murmurs thrumming up through flesh. "She's just so _cute_. I was there interviewing some skeevy prof, and then I met _cute_ lil' Miyuki. She's just so adorable, huh?

"I could barely believe it." And there is a jealousy more urgent more brutally _crushing_ in its wicked unfairness than a starving man with wizened hands clamped on the plate glass while the worthy in their suits wrought from dollars and Euros and yen feast and feast and who undergo stomach pumps in tribute to the modern Viking ideal to persevere while the armed guards ward away the hungry.

Their mouths _sigh_ together. There is the intimacy that can only flourish in that familiarity that becomes muscle memory that is reflex without a sense of the tired and retrodden. The extemporaneous in this perfection; Miyuki- _tan_ 's fingers almost numbing in the simple cocaine sublimity they knead into every inch sodden with steeping supersaturated sensitivity but there is a craving for more and more and more while lips in their cherry petal delirium pour together.

While there is a kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and fingers _strain_ ; there is a twang and jerk and shiver and every convolution coruscates through the flesh into flesh and I am animated I am _become_ this lust this desire in fine knees and shapely legs and wet gossamer fabrics. It is to quiver and quake.

There is a sexual frisson stitching itself into and out of every fucking _nerve_.

This is their essence.

They are not simple nerves.

They are _fucking_ nerves. Do you understand? You and me, you understand, yes, yes, yes, the eyes are transfixed even while the head is thrown back because there is something huge and spattering with wet slovenly electricity a staggering shambling madness that canters up like a crazed spear-riddled bull through heavy hot forests.

Wailing.

"A-ah, ah!" Toes curl in the cinching leather.

Heaving.

"A-ah, ah, ah, yeah!" It is to _become_ this. This orgasmic perfection.

For orgasm perhaps to be _surpassed_.

Their mouths bleed together; thighs are nudged apart and there can be no complaint because there is the fervor for their kisses to conjoin over another pair of lips.

A vertical smile.

Sloppy.

Messy.

Weeping craving and desire.

Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Their desires conjoined and there is nothing like restraint, nothing like compunction.

"'s there still any _stuff_ in ya, Ayu- _chan_?" It's mad, this voice, Asami's eyes muddled battered with drink and something heavier and hotter and not fermented but only intoxicating in its lust-sweetened hugeness.

Oh, oh, oh, this _fanaticism_ this sexual fundamentalism that rears up with a frenzy that could only be the madman's cradling the switch the toggle the mechanical wonderment that coils off from the vest that will reduce him to mist and thunder and heave the body through a chemical sieve into the immortality that is non-being.

It is _insanity_. All of it, all of it. Delirious delicious an inexpressible frenzy that shudders up and down up and down through every fucking muscle. Every fuck-muscle, also, ah, ah, ah, oh, oh, the wit. The shivers coruscating up through the calves and their mouths are oh oh oh _oh_ so close.

"M-maybe, Asami. A-Asami!" A quail; it can only be. Because it is not _one_ pair of lips but two and there is a union they will bleed together in sticky gloss-lacquered delirium and there are still bits motes morsels that can be spun into heavy ropy tendrils _pulled_ from that place that is alchemy's essence. Flesh transmuted into wonderment, into desire, into _perfection_ surpassing anything that human artifice can conjure.

All is vanity beside the natural. Their mouths clasped together and it is a bifurcated passion, weeping into one another while tongues loll out and twist and tangle and _spear_ deeper deeper deeper and it is to pull jerk tug and there can never be any bliss surpassing this.

Woman and woman.

It is Miyuki- _tan_ 's long lissome fingers; they will lace and twine with Asami's and there is a... A _deformation_. A twist in reality. All is filtered through a lens that distends reality's simple fabric into a quivering jellied nonsense and there is a will to blink.

To draw breath ragged and hot and stained with them and it cannot be. It is suffocation while Asami's fingers with mischievous ease crease down down down and there is a _flit_ a quirk a twist and now, now, Miyuki- _tan_ is bared in her delectable living cruelties, the masculine flesh that is nothing masculine at all in anything but a fang-snapping testosterone-denuded _protest_ against the irresistible, the ineluctable. The accursed chromosome's slow death that will not be silent will be in defiance with blood and hunger and still invariably Gaea's spear buried deeper and deeper and deeper.

She is beautiful; her _flesh_ is beautiful. The amber skin rearing into its fine sweat-glinting relief and the stockings in their luster do not merely creep are not a painted artifice but bleed with _womanly_ authenticity into the thighs.

It is to be awed; to be swallowed; to be _devoured_. Pulled into the eyes and they are enormous and it could be mistaken for vulnerability, but it is not even this. It is a confidence that is the conviction that one _must_ be; one must reconcile oneself with the geometry and even the geography and all it sculpted assiduously and there is a numbness to all but the body.

The wish to _become_ this, also.

A plea for Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdom to take root in her flesh; and it is a heel outstretched and there is a slow long lingering graze and their fingers have twisted together and their long fine legs, also. A clamoring for fragile sleek toes but this cannot be. Ah, ah, ah, we must all compromise, you understand.

And it is now not only one heel but a second; quick and nimble and they will fasten with a mischievous grace that is indifferent to the city's grime, because it is simply cast _out_. Ah, ah, ah, _beeeegone_ , foul deyeeeemooon! You understand that this is; it is, because it must be. Because there is a willful indifference to this thing called _reality_ that is only an exercise in fantasy's collective consensus and they are not banished but pulled deeper and Miyuki- _tan_ 's flesh is the ideal the supreme.

Asami's knees a fragile subdued little sibilance on the tiles; and there is the spine's achingly languorous arch a poetry a _somatic grandiloquence_ in all of this. In her heave and writhe and there are fingers now twisting lacing around the plump pert yielding heat between Miyuki- _tan_ 's thighs and it is an act of beneficence and conquest, also. And we will gorge ourselves upon noblesse oblige because we are the tyrants.

We are the Empresses, the Queens, the Tsaritsas. And Miyuki- _tan_ is princessly in her guise; in her adorable ruffled skirt that is now tattooed in its every gradation along the mind that painterly place between the ears and behind the eyes _hiked_ tugged up to the slim taut belly.

There is a stroke and my ankles have become lust's guise; not the thick groaning patent leather lambent and twinkling with a confused starlight smear captured from the ceiling's luster but the shiver in flesh upon fabric slathered steeping _sodden_ in sweat.

Coos rear up; swallowed now between thighs shuddering with her. With the hair's sleek anthracite grace with the cheeks' airbrushed elegances with the sticky gloss and it is hunger, hunger, hunger. An esurience for man and woman at once; for the cum's clotted wet vestiges dragged out out out and there is awe in the eyes when its heavy fragrance simply _plumes_. Flowers in its leaden immensity; bubbles up up up and there is a drunkenness a junk-steeping _delectation_ candid in the eyes.

"A-ah, ah, ah, Ayu- _nee_ , y-y'taste just like a boy!" Cooing and garrulous and it surpasses the word _bliss_ ' simple boundaries. They would strain like a water balloon wrought from tissue paper fastened to a faucet that could fill a 747 in the interval between breaths and the eyes are enormous and they roil with a delirium that will never be surpassed. It is fantasy deferred and finally consummated even in this sainted surrogacy in this vicarious perfection that is tasting truth through the mirror's cold quicksilver glint.

Hot and hot and hot and melting now into a twisting formless puddle that gathers into fleeting shapes that will be known only in the moments when the eyes slip open after every lash-rustling blink. She brandishes a second head in Asami's freckle-kissed grace; in the cheeks almost lunar in their cool softness against the tanned darkness and there are lips and mouths and the cum squelches and sputters between thighs and there are fine long fingers prodding and knowing in its fullest intimacy.

"You taste just like a boy! You're filled with- with a boy's stuff, Ayu- _nee_." And there is no answer but the guttural hunger that laces its brutal scalding talons through the ears and pulls and twists and there...

There is no pornography in this thing. It is not the familiar not the prepackaged it is not consumer lust but there is still an act of impersonation, of a parody, only a jubilation in this act of communion with the gazelles the enchantresses that devour the men's coveted attention. She is algolagnia personified; it is an act of self-flagellation in swallowing down down down another's perfection that is desired and that still eludes so wickedly.

There is a _woe_ in all of this, also.

Suckling swallowing _slurping_ now whatever can be dug from the flesh and delectation laces and races and rips and twists and wheels and... And there are flitting flickering bits of anguish in joy that gurgles histrionic up through the lips.

Ah, ah, _ah_!

There is pornography in this; there is the familiar. It is to have tasted this thing, whatever your desires, and it is perhaps an act of surrender to human weakness to your heresy even with Goddess- _chan_ 's inviolate perfection in her wisdom, because there has still been the simple elemental need to stir with the autumnal leaves' soft rustle with selfish groping fingers not joyless but not truly joyful, either.

I crave her.

Pull her closer, and closer, and closer. I will wish to defile her; I will wish to lay bare pretensions to belie her ambitions to the future with the present and it is not fair at all. So lace legs admire them in their length against her lissome shoulders when the tunic is slipped _off off off_ when there is an exposure a tittering dainty unease when they are not _tits_ but they are very much breasts in the way that the first satiny blossoms announce the melon's coalescence.

They _will_ be. They are beautiful, the thick nipples and the areolae in their generous scope and the lavish grace in the first _inkling_ of the flesh gathering with the hormones' fanciful and irresistible commands and all is mechanistic and all is machinery and we are all fleshly machines and we are all _mad_ with this. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

"A-ah, ah, Miyuki- _tan_ , you- you should have even _more_. I've got quite the feast for you, you know. H-hyah!" Ah, ah, words die senselessly in carnal slaughter on the lips. Tremble and tumble back and there is an awareness in movement in the straining shoulders flaring up up up the spine arching her hips' graceful cock and there is only the act of _feasting_. Twisting away draping yourself over a throne wrought in glinting antiseptic porcelain and Asami has become a predator, also.

There is only the hungry stalk through jungle thick and wilting and weeping creamy misty tendrils that drool around the creepers in a lavish titillating caress. Her mouth is Miyuki- _tan_ 's and there is the act of eating, eating, eating. A sumptuous symmetry and Miyuki- _tan_ 's eyes swallow ages and these ages embrace their own realities their own epochs and societies and civilizations in their birth and life and death in a sumptuous wheeling waltz.

A squelch a wet and merciless sputter and there is a _pop_ ; it is a figure simply dragged from Miyuki's hips' geometries from the straining staining warmth nestled deeper still and there is a scream rearing up higher higher higher exploding to escape velocity ricocheting from Mars to Jupiter to fucking Alpha Centauri and then simply slipping not only gravity's but realities boundaries and plunging recoiling back into the meat machinery and it animates her more surely than anything.

Upraised; that exotic gossamer-mechanical thread's destination and it is thick and still throbs 'til it's quieted 'til it's stilled with a finger's graze on that lovely heart and it is fragrant with the flesh's warm unctuous depths slathered in latex and it is latex upon latex, rubber upon rubber, or some likeness thereof, and scalding juices dribble down down down in their lucent elegances.

There is promise; there is vow in this.

"P-please, please, _please_ , y'took it out!" It is nothing cogent; there is no continuity from clause to clause and what the fuck can it even matter when a calf's wound around Miyuki- _tan_ 's oh so lovely nape flitting over the thick satiny hair straighter than pin-straight perfecter than perfect against skin tasted through sweat-steeping fabric.

Touch her, touch her, and...

And now, now, it is something ostentatious. A brazenness, a _possessiveness_ for Asami; for the freckles that've melted down into a Global Warming ocean over soft cheeks and there is a dip and wilt and fall and hair wreathes the sable elegances in round round hips and a luscious ass that could only be mistaken for a profoundly fresh peach slipping into overripeness in the orchard's heavy dappling sunset aura, neglected only for the peach's own achingly elegant camouflage.

Scalding; trembling.

The voice limns a mad spearing violence between the thighs; becomes its own presence, protean and still wheeling and twisting through novel constellations in geometry and hue and grade. It is the leopard shuffling with a quick rattle and crackle through the acacia and now it is the jungle-dwelling tiger and now it is the strutting lion and it becomes the wolf in its great transmutation into the nerve-ripping sexual sublimity _hurtling_ down every vein and up every _inch_.

"W-wah! Ah! Ah! Ah!" Screeching with Miyuki- _tan_ 's tongue and there is a will to urge her onward to batter and _mush mush mush_ those adorable sled-chihuahuas and there's a spectacle of breathlessness now in the jaws craning open in huge ragged gasps tugged down in her face adorned anointed lacquered shimmering with twisting light and shadow captured in the juices smeared over every inch.

In the lips bruised and trembling and that sweet fuchsia stripe that's conduit to fulfillment and there must be patience while Asami's fingers long and sleek have begun to gouge and tear and...

"P-please, please, please, don' jus' tease me no moooore!" It's so. Fucking. _Cute_. The accent rearing up and it's a lip-deforming warble rippling the cheeks a huge prolonged convulsive _squeal_. "Please, please, y'gotta stop jus' _teasin_ ' me-"

"W-whoa, whoa, _whoa_." Peer down into the eyes and there's a flush that's hotter and more violent than _anything_ the body should conjure. It becomes violet in the tawny cheeks. "T-that was so fuckin' cute, I... I think I came from _that_."

"Ain't it?" Asami's voice heavy thick _hot_ gurgling and sticky with inexpressible hungers from behind Miyuki- _tan_ 's luscious hips. "She usually tries ta keep it down, but she _is_ from Kagoshima-"

"A-ah, ah, that's so fucking delicious. Such an adorable little belle, huh? Oh, oh, _Scahlette_." A cooing grace and a zeal with fingers _tearing_ into my tits now. My own; not that carnal solipsism, no, no, it is not opposed to Goddess- _chan_ 's sainted sacrament but it is only blood shed for your own goblet.

Dip slowly the Host into the churn.

"You should- should _always_ talk like that, Miyuki- _tan_."

"Ngn... 's so embarrassin' here in Tokyo; always makes me feel like a bumpkin-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. You're jus' such a delicious lil' suthuhn belle. 's whatcha are." How can you not coo and adore and simply _melt_. "A-ah, and your lips're as delicious as _any_ Lizzie-"

"I wantcha two ta _play_ with _me_! D-don't only- only tease me-"

"Oh, how so?" How can you not tease? But, well...

It's nothing so simple.

"Ngn... Lil' Miyuki- _tan_ is veeeery precocious, y'know?" And this is Asami's mesmeric wisdoms; her luscious debaucheries announced in the lips' tremor. "She can take _two_ -"

"Nya, y'ain't gotta tell nobody that!" Nya? Nya? Mewling and quaking and there's a spasm a violent frisson stitching through her every _inch_. In the heart's pummel through her throat in the breath gasped down.

"Well, it's _true_. An' you _do_ want us to play with you, right, lil' Miyuki- _tan_? We can't _both_ -"

"Y'kin take turns." Beseeching and...

And knelt now; _convulsive_ with a shudder that heaves up up up and threatens to split the sky with lightning's sharp cracking toll, it's obvious how _fictive_ this is. What sublime artifice it is.

It is a mask; it is the fan-dancer's elegant tease in the long legs' twist and the hips' cock and sway and writhe and rock. It is pleading for more, more, more.

Fingers lacing up through her hair.

A _tug_.

"Oh? Are you _reaaaallly_ sure, lil' Miyuki- _tan_?" Asami's voice deep and thick and simply _dangerous_.

For me.

For her.

For the universe's very boundaries while reality melts. While the tongue's pink stripe flits over an ear's shell; while there is a delicious juxtaposition painted not in tenebrism not in the Baroque chiaroscuro but only finer gradations.

Palms _clapped_ on Miyuki's tits.

They are tits.

Modest, but _there_ ; already puckering with fat's delectable kiss.

"I brought two." It's wicked.

Mischievous; its legal sense. A diablerie rearing up; a thick smear of nimbus along a horizon eldritch in its scrawling magenta lightning and it promises something eviler than any trivial bit of sexual cannibalism. It is a feast vowed; it is a banquet with her luscious Suthuhn Belle sublime.

It is not only one but _two_ brandished now from the sack once slung over a shoulder and set with a sense of some supreme orderliness on the tiles and they are _very_ lovely. Not a man's overcompensating ambitions but elemental perfection in the flesh that is authentically desired; the tapered grace the lovely rubberized fantasy furrowed and fluted with inklings of texture like veins like arteries it is...

It is oh so enchanting.

Twinned; one peachy and the other simply a raw ruddy scarlet and it is a sense of the novel and the homogeneous, also, in their disparities. Twins separated by complexion and nothing else and the condoms tumble down down down in a rattling theatrical spindle unfurled and there is a self-evident _lust_ bubbling up in Miyuki- _tan_ 's huge eyes with less than persuasive affectations of innocence.

It is the innocence that is only a will to defilement. Her long long legs' quake and they are novel, aren't they? Not Ran's groaning latex harnesses in their intricate sartorial convolutions but terminating in thick plump buds like an orchid recoiling back into tautly knotted bulbs.

They are oh so lovely.

One eased into my hand.

And there is somatic wisdom now. What is to be done with them? Ah, ah, it is not even imagination. It is a simple perfection. The rubbers sharp rattling plastic and crinkling foil and now, now, the nostrils are invaded with the heavy unctuous lubricant and latex scents and they become perfumes in tandem and Miyuki- _tan_ 's eyes beseech with those formulaic bits of denial.

 _Ahn, ahn, **nyaaa** , you can't do that._

 _They'll never fit._

 _Why, why, **why** are you being so mean?_

 _But don't stop._

 _Don't you **dare** stop_.

Lubricant splashed with the hands' insouciance. Upon mine; upon hers.

There is a sigh.

Shivering. The bulbs tucked between thighs and now, now, her skirt has joined mine in awareness so distant it is to meditate on a mote of dust flitting through the late Holocene wind. There is nothing but _memory_ wafting around Miyuki- _tan_ 's lissome waist.

Nakedness but for the stockings, the heels. It is a pornographic sublimity and it is a point of collective conviction and the bulbs _sigh_ squelch a wet delirious hunger and there is something more grandiose still.

Her fingers; Asami's.

Quick.

Flitting.

Lips more than ravenous; falling together in a kiss and a kiss and a kiss and the lubricant puddles on fingers but there is not yet those first impatient slathering strokes. It is for lips to be conjoined; it is to gorge yourself on an intimacy that hasn't been tasted for days for _weeks_. Yes. Yes. Weeks' denial.

Her mouth soft and lavish and we will kiss and kiss and kiss and it is with a madness a fervor that is not love because its very possibility has been shouldered away with lust's bumptious immensity because this is _our_ relationship, this is our dimension, our simple being. Lust and lust and lust.

Her touch her body the pert firm tits and the nipples pricking up and whispering over heavy soft breasts and there is a sudden spasmodic _awe_ ; a hand stealing between us and there is turbulence is a long lingering _jerk_ at the flesh that has become a surrogate cock and it is _lovelier_ than that. Electricity unfurls and a tremor throbs into being and it is not even the familiar sharp shivering sibilance but something...

Something deeper.

Strange sibylline whispers palpitate through the nerves through the flesh with a finger's quirk and sway and there's a regular hot straining _presence_ raging through the hunger that hedges that grinds around it that recoils and retreats and plunges down down down again.

"W-what the hell-"

"Wow, lookit _that_. Looks like even _I_ can surprise _you_ , Ayumi- _tan_." The voice a trill a coo and it melts down _transmutes_ into a brutal sexual alchemy a scalding whisper against the ear because now, now, you are not quite prey but you are no longer the untouched _untouchable_ predator from which the adorable little nymphs shrink while paws rustle rasp through the undergrowth.

And there is another hand.

And another.

Eyes in their symmetry _blazing_ open and it is Asami's, also.

Trembling with awe.

Sticky wet fervor and it's... It's something unreal; almost unwholesome. A quickening in the throbs that burble up up up and it's a squelch and sputter and it's _lips_ mouths there's an imagery a strange muddled reflection that's more merely silhouette in its dimensions while stares flit down unblinking and almost rictus and it's Miyuki's long lovely immaculately manicured fingers laced around _both_.

A stroke; a jerk; the lips quick in their adoring alternation, flitting from head to head and it is to be devoured with a zest for the words all-you-can-eat. We are her buffet; we are buffeted with the buffet experience, ah, ah, ah, and it's heads thrown back and suddenly...

A need for more.

The bulb is a strange botanical lust that invades the blood in rust-hued poisonous gradations; they are painted in impressionistic grades and twists and convolutions and the eyes spring open and fall closed and there is a sincere _fantasy_ in what could only be more than imagination. It is Eri- _chenchei_ 's delirium; it is cock, cock, cock, cock, and is this a man's fanaticism?

"W-what the fuck is this, Asami- _tan_ -"

"'s amazing, right? I- I have a friend at Ōsaka; she's- she's... S-shit, she's _amazing_ at robotics-"

"'s heresy. 's what it is. W-why, y'could... Could be burned at the stake in past ages. An'- an' Goddess- _chan_ would _not_ approve-"

"And it still feels real, right?" Wincing with the tongue flitting and flailing over the heads. Even through the fucking _rubber_ , it's an authenticity. With chests heaving now. "I- I'm _done_ with foreplay, now, lil' Miyuki- _tan_ -"

"C'mon. Y'ain't jus' gon' stick it in, are ya?" And lil' Miyuki- _tan_ 's compunctions have melted. In everything. Tease and quirk and jerk and, well...

"Oh, _fuck_ , yes." This is _my_ conviction. "Miyuki- _tan_ , I hate to be a rude hostess, but I must atone for my impiety in this. I will fuck you 'til your cute pussy comes out of your hips." Pluck and stroke and there are fingers laced into around underarms and sharp trilling cooing giggles and she is borne aloft, higher higher higher, a frailty a grace a transcendental sense of studied delicacy in the proportions in the fine bones in the _everything_.

Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, and the fictive cocks are now dripping _stained_ with lubrication in its lambent smears and Miyuki- _tan_ , also, and this is a novelty. It is unnatural, because dancing with penguins is unnatural, and it is still California's most beloved pastime. Pull her close and it is to anoint her with the lubricant's greasy vestiges.

There can be no complaint. Pull and rear and rise and... And it is to know a confluence in will in motive because it would be _so_ very very _very_ inconvenient to bother with alternation with any other poise with the floor so there is no need. Height disparities melt away with the arching spines and heaving hips and arms are wound 'round our beauty's waist and it is Asami's and mine, also.

Strength conjoined to _hoist_.

An awe with the modest bulk.

A coo.

Sharp and hot and incredulous.

"Y-you're lifting me!" While Asami's eyes bleed into mine and her being is draped in hair and _mine_ is to taste the long long long legs claiming purchase on my waist the arms wound 'round me _melting_ down in a beautiful glint of another time this evening Miyuki- _tan_ 's face planted in my tits.

"A-ah!" Because there are no words; because there is only Miyuki's clamoring because our voices would feel almost heretical while this sumptuous priestess not of androgyny but only the penis-envy fantastic is borne aloft. Is speared; is impaled. "Y-you're doing it right away?" It's Asami's girlcock; it's an awareness in its own voice.

Miyuki devours us.

Drapes us.

 _Bewitches_. Her eyes and her lips because there is always that faint little twanging strain in that adorable pert pucker and there is a deeper bliss still because it is not only a ring scalding with the body's lusts but something deeper still; a surrogate G-spot, hammered through the heavy root that rears up _grinds_ into my belly.

Stabbed and speared again and again with that hot straining boy fuck-meat.

Yes.

Yes.

Trip balls, rape boyz... Fuck girls. Fuck girl-boys? It is still the Gospel, you understand. Asami's first long slow achingly deliberate _plunge_. Impalement announced in Miyuki's pussy's voice and something else.

A gasp a shudder the eyes enormous and simply falling closed; the lashes settle soft and sibilant over her cheeks and strain open again with the first languorous regular _pump_. There is clamoring, craving.

Expectation.

"Nya... I... I love... Love it. Love it. I- I'ain't never been _reaallly_ dee-pee'd before. It... You're just holding me. 'm flyin'. Flyin'." Gurgling giggling garrulous and it could only be perfecter with the feminine authenticity; with heavy luscious titties flattened against mine but the face, ah, ah, her face, the delicious dark skin, well, who can truly aspire to complain?

Kiss and kiss and kiss.

Swallow down the howls.

And now, now, it is _your_ surrogate flesh to be eased up, up, up.

"C'mon. C'mon. Put it _iiiin_ , won't'cha, Ayumi- _chan_?" Asami's needling wheedling exhortations.

Importuning.

"It feels fucking _amazing_. Two in her? It just drives me fuckin' _crazy_ with these. You don't mind, right, honey?" Every word punctuated with the lips' brush through heavy thick hair flattened further further further straighter than straight blacker than moonless midnight, maundering over the ear's fine shell.

Timid; flushing; the eyes are more than glazed more than crazed.

"You should _beg_ , Miyuki- _tan_." It is Asami's artful embellishment; lilies gilded and truffles slathered with chocolate and another layer still and why not a bit more chocolate?

"W-whah?" It's more a gurgle than a word.

"C'mon, Miyuki- _tan_. Beg. Show Asami- _neechan_ an' Ayu- _nee_ just _how_ huge a slut you are."

"Y're so mean ta me, Asami- _neechan_ -" It's a plea for more; an exhortation that is more than merely a _tease_. Mincing and preening and _pouting_ with that luscious little-girl carnality.

"C'mon. C'mon. C'mon." Quick sharp wet _slapping_ pumps; ricochet in the blood in its urgent huge throb against my belly. Awe; delirium. "C'mon-"

"O-oh, oh, oh!" But there is only candor now; in the huge huge huge eyes burgeoning open _straining_ against the lashes bewitching me devouring me. Commanding. "'s true. 'm such... Such a huge slut; I wanna be an even _bigger_ one. S-show Miyuki how big a slut she is; f-fuck Miyu up her ass! Gimme- gimme two in my butt!" Whoa.

And there is no woe here. Just... Just a twist and a quirk and it's _more_ than intense. A strain surpassing all others and there's a roiling urgent hot empathy with those lovely fuck-boys and their fuck-toys their meat their muscle straining and twisting and it's more a prepossessing terror that it should _break_ in its plastic-fantastic sexuality.

Digging daggering deeper and it is not a breath so much as breathlessness. Hot and scalding and sputtering up up up; a sense that organs should be displaced that the spleen should probably be dozing now on her tongue with the cocks' massive straining ripping presence and there is only the purity in carnal perfume.

In her body; in ours; everything conjoined everything hammered together with a celestial smith's fervor with a zeal that riots up and down every nerve that is fingers biting into her luscious skin into the fabric-draped flesh into her ass and...

And it's to chance a languid little flit down and know that flesh distending around _us_ ; around the latex-sheathed latex the perfection in the sexual recursive and she is being filled and filled and overstuffed, long slow patient plodding arcs up into her that quicken quicken quicken.

Eyes are blind and tongues are numb and lips can only be mute.

What is to be said _here_?

Ah. So that's what it is?

Tear through her.

Feel the union in flesh and flesh in bodies and bodies and she is there and she is there and, ah, ah, ah, well, _you_ were not there, were you, Scarecrow, but who fuckin' cares at all.

"Y-y'r'all fillin' me! I'm gon' die! Miyuki's gon' _die_!" Warbling wailing.

The universe is _wet_.

The cocks' sputter through her.

Her voice thick and heavy from the throat.

Her body and ours with sweat.

And there are sticky droplets rearing up from the straining throbbing thick hot lust cradled against my belly, bound between us. They're feathery, slick, scalding; more and more and more and more and more and there's a wisdom of gathering tension.

A rumor of madness clenching.

Cinching.

"W-wah! M-Miyuki's gon' _coooome_ -"

"C'mon. C'mon. Come even _harder_! Can't'cha feel it, Ayumi- _tan_?" Asami's voice a bellow a warble a howl and any visitor, well, theirs could only be deafness not to gorge themselves on the aural sex in its fullest most convulsive hugeness, ricocheting and reverberating from wall to wall to wall and it is to feast upon yourself in this instant and what you were mere moments ago.

Delicious; absolutely _succulent_.

Ground against that straining spongy flesh.

A faint _glint_ of awareness in the cocks' sharp slanting arc and it's for Asami's to grind you against it to flare and rear up and up and up and up and it's now quickening hammering slapping wet brutal _merciless_ and Miyuki's eyes could swallow you pull you down unlace your atoms from one another and drag you deep deep deep into that jet eternity.

Inhaled and devoured and it's just...

It's to be spat up again.

Miyuki's adorable feminine cock throbbing throbbing throbbing bloating up and a hungry heavy wet smear's being _torn_ from her on that cresting yowling yodeling wail that turns lips to rubber and spines to gelatin.

"W-ah! Miyuki's comin'; Miyuki's _cooomin'_!" Spatter rattle slather sluice race lace up up up between my tits a squelching _scalding_ presence an eternity in cum more and more and more and more and it becomes a sob creeping from her lips but there's no need for _our_ frenzy to end, is there?

No, no, no, no, no.

Harder.

Hotter.

Wetter. A pummeling violence that is hips cracking against her ass is our flesh _together_ again and again and again and...

"M-Miyuki wants'ta be ontop'a ya, Ayu- _nee_. C-can't take bein' up like this no more-"

"Lazy _slut_. When _you're_ the one getting lifted; when _you're_ the one flying between us." Asami's voice heavier and hotter than imagination could even supply.

But how can you complain when the cum's trickling now down down down over your hips your sides when you're perfumed with that sharp creamy scent that enamels itself on the nostrils that is not your world but something lavish huge delirious.

It's madness; it's another convolution in the junk steeping down into every cell twisting every mote and morsel of the body into _this_. Into this communion of feminine hungers and Miyuki's hair becomes a sweat-wet curtain drooping down with timid affectations of modesty over the body and her mouth is a searching questing wet-velvet lizard slathering sticky smeared on my tits plucking strumming at my nipples and there is an arch a sudden violent twist and her body has become a thread stitching together Asami's and mine while my shoulders and ass settle on fabric draped from _somewhere_ across the cold sterile tile.

Lurching.

Pumping.

 _Pummeling_ ; delicious delicious sumptuous succulent an awareness of her ass' endless shudder and tremor generous feminine muscle and pert fine fat and Asami's eyes betray a madness a candid obedience now to Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdom and we are become sweat and sensuality and sexuality even in this air-conditioned mist.

Squelch.

Reach.

Lurch.

They are no longer those discrete masculine bits of orgasm for Miyuki- _tan_ but only a woman's delirium; only the eyes tumbling back crude oil becoming cream and the jaws slack and the voice an uninterrupted lurruping groan and gurgle and her spine's strain her shoulders' shudder her legs' spasm and...

And it is again and again and again and there is more than bliss racing up down up down a merciless marching cadence _through_ my body. It is flesh in parallel; it is the pussy's groping concentricities tasting the bulb in its every depth and it is the cock's unreal electronic figments that are nothing so _primitive_ so fucking simple and it is...

It is to be all and absolutely nothing at once.

Shiver.

Spasm.

The sensual universe's great limbs unfurl; its feathers become crude-oil shadow creeping and skulking and stalking and _swallowing_ ultimately everything into their cradling embrace its wings devour are as night.

I am falling.

I am tumbling; not ripped away from her but only still still still everything absolutely unreally still.

There is an awareness of absolute quietude.

It is theater.

It is the eyes unblinking; not open but not closed the India-ink quills that are her lashes half-fallen and a twinkling glazed-over madness in the tear-swept black puddles the tawny skin indigo with a flush boiling up with a huge raucous dam-breaking scream and it is Asami, also, the few stippling freckles subsumed into her draping lust-haze and...

And it is _mine_.

A sledgehammer brandished and crushed through this conspiracy of silence.

 _Waaaah_!

Everyone.

Everything.

Asami crumpling.

Miyuki _wilting_.

No words; not the refrain, Ah, ah, ah, _coming_ , because it'd be an idiocy. Oh? Oh? Coming? Going. There and here again and again and again, wheeling around and tumbling back and it's pluming up with a volcanic enormity that bristles against the breast that twists apart the bone that rips through the sinew like a katana through a patiently assembled Persian rug in a mad whirling-dervish frenzy and there's...

There's an envy for them.

To be numb and catatonic with its enormity; for the latex lust to be complacently _jerked_ from Miyuki- _tan_ for their mouths to creep together for long delicate fingers and tongues to gather in great quivering puddles the cum that's been _dragged_ out of Miyuki's soft sumptuous flesh her body's shuddering heat.

But it cannot be.

Palms cradled on Miyuki- _tan_ 's hips; admiring her now from a vantage that is not an elusive one but that has never been quite savored like _this_ , heaving and hammering and pummeling and it's answered with dreamy delirium while Asami's latex craving has been tossed away, the rubber snapped off and tossed into the wastebin and it is bare flesh it is her pussy to be kissed cradled cosseted adored with Miyuki- _tan_ 's lissome fingers.

Squelching slathering tongue and finally, _finally_ , perhaps it is hours or days or...

"Nyah! M-Miyuki can't take it n'more. M-my pussy's goin' all numb an' sloppy an' stuff." It isn't exasperation.

It is not the junk-sickness in nymphomania; in the delirium in cells and biology twisted into new normalities.

It is forever novel and revivified but it's...

It's never wilting.

It is eternally that first joy bang.

Eternally the _first_ _**real**_ time.

It is...

It is to kiss and kiss and kiss and devour Miyuki- _tan_ and fingers jerk and tug and tease and torment that soft feminine-masculine girl-boy flesh and Asami is draped in her professional tousled elegance a glimpse of deliquescence, yes, yes, with thighs splayed and only her skin arresting the muscle and brain and _being_ from drooling out into some drain.

"Wah... Y-y're..." Asami's voice a coo.

A quiver.

The rubber snapped off and it's that strange electrical cock that heavy-metal passion hammered with a merciless rumbling cadence between Miyuki- _tan_ 's sweet soft lips fingers laced into her hair pulling tugging the act of irrumation a deepthroat frenzy a _madness_ her jaw straining her cheeks bloated with spittle that creeps and leaks out her throat _distended_ with its arcing twisting bulk.

There is no will to anoint her cheeks with palms in hot ruby negative.

To choke.

Only to gag.

To impale.

Deep deep deep down down down and there are desultory playful strokes in Miyuki- _tan_ 's lissome fingers prodding and touching and...

"M-Miyuki's all sloppy down there, y'know, an'... An' my jaw aches an'-"

"More! Please! Please!" While Miyuki- _tan_ 's eyes beseech _patience_.

Mercy.

How can I?

How _can I?_

 _ **How can I?!**_

Wah.

Wah.

"L-lick my pussy, then. C'mon." The bulb slipped away and there is regret and there is _delight_ , also, in Goddess- _chan_ 's natural philosophies in Miyuki- _tan_ 's mouth but it's altogether too quickly finished while fingers prod and stroke and they are mine and hers and her tongue is oiled velvet against the lips and digging deep deep deep.

Mouth _swallowing_ me.

And it is still too soon.

Crumpling, quavering.

"M-Miyuki's all tired out." Huddled with Asami.

"S-sorry... D-dammit, looks like... Y'look like a _goddess_ , y'know, Ayumi- _chan_?" Asami's skin ornamented with Miyuki- _tan_ 's slender lissome darkness; a fox draped over a wolf. The fangs are blunted but not broken; they will not resist.

I am the Forest Goddess.

The divinity in wolf's skin.

"You've got this aura. I- I jus' can't compete, I guess."

Guess so.

"Bang, bang." Fingers outstretched at them. Felled with my madness.

Happiness is a warm gun.


	6. Happiness Is a Warm Gun

It is not a drunk, and it is not a funk, and it is not a junk-sick thrall and it is not a will to heave yourself at the pharmacist's mercy and plead for even the tiniest _droplet_ of that sainted relief the Paregoric the Tincture of Opium, oh, oh, oh, that sumptuous laudanum. But it isn't anything so _simple_ ; so simpleminded. It's the perfected hard-edged faceted hunger that can only be companion _to_ a high. It isn't the coming down; it's the soaring, the plea for more more more, higher and higher and higher, the engines screaming for a more urgently huge octane, for jet fuel to become rocket fuel to become nuclear frenzy an explosion to heave you to stratospheric dimensions but this cannot be.

There is always the sense of disappointment. The awareness that the high in its heady reeling vertiginous _hugeness_ is bleeding off, is seeping from your veins, slopping out across the pavement and it isn't quite with a sense of the inevitable so much as just an elemental _hopelessness_. Fingers grope at the drunk at the high at the _perfection_ and they only find purchase as surely as razors do on the great graphite ocean into which they plunge.

It is our country's most productive industry, you understand, the graphite mines. The blades gouge and twist deep with their huge wheeling plucking talons and tendrils and they will snap together and they will pull and pull and pull and the graphite is an endlessly renewable resource, because not _one drop_ will ever actually be torn from the pool. It is very laborious, you understand.

Tens of thousands of laborers and technicians must undergo _exacting_ training, an intensive regimen in conditioning to toil in this abyss steeping in a brutal swelter that conjures sweat so great that it coheres into a collective briny mist raining down upon the workers' shoulders. The machinery becomes scabrous and caramel-stained with rust; the robots will protest and complain and they must be beaten back with pig-tallow cudgels.

Cows are to no avail here.

Ah! But there is the problem. Because the graphite cannot be drawn from the pit. Buckets will accomplish nothing, because they are quite beside the point. It is much much more lucrative to preserve our strategic graphite reserves without buckets and without bucket brigades; we are paid well for this duty, for this tiresome and onerous responsibility.

And so the graphite economy is one of scale; it will burgeon ineluctably greater around this ideal. Great technological advances are lubricated with the graphite mines, because we must become immeasurably more efficient in the non-extraction. Some of our finest engineers and roboticists are invested in the graphite non-extraction sector.

So shall it be. I am wallowing in the graphite. I will drown, and drown, and it is to suck its great powdery tufts into your lungs and swallow and gasp and know the senses blackening with the satiny grace and I will drown and drown and drown and fall deeper and deeper. It is a will not to resignation and not to resistance, either.

You can only throw up your hands and thrash with a nightclub zeal; plead for a rhythm without rhyme and for a beat that clubs dull-eyed hunters with a baby seal's frenzied reprisal. We will steal into the villages and we will know their brains beaten out with the thickly knotted cudgels wrought from their less fortunate brethren's bones.

Ah. Ah. Taste the blood swallow down the heavy garnet mists wheel and twist and dance and dance and dance and there _is_ a club.

There are many clubs; none is quite like _this_ one in the immediate town, however. There is a sawing heavy rhythm that trembles and shudders and _mashes_ through the brain with huge bone-white lances wrought in sonic mayhem and it's with music, music, _music_ , motherfucker. It ain't the tedious J-pop in its castrato squalling and the autotuned nightmare that's only our robotic passions wrought as music, as prepackaged and formulaic as the squealing ah-ah-ah AV porno beauties whose bliss is anguish and whose anguish is the audience's clammy-handed sweat-stained carnalities.

It is something apart from this. It is an act of ostentatious and self-conscious anachronism and there is...

There is a fanaticism wheeling through the mind in a great great warp a funnel in the sensual in awareness narrowing the universe into thick threads that're winnowed further further further coiling taut played out in a plaid blotter for the lysergic acid that will bubble up in reality-corroding smears through every nerve. A heave and a shudder and it is not Studio 54, but Studio 54 was probably not, either.

There is flesh. Hunger. Delirium.

The music is not alone; the rhythm is not alone; the ambiance is not alone; the rancid grape and grain that is to be lauded and upheld as adult ideal and sipped and savored by those whose wrists' limpness should be an obstacle to lifting a pen, the sommeliers and the simply affected the _stupid_ ; the drugs, also. They are never to be taken in their abstractions, in their novel segregation, because this is to reject their essence. They must be savored together.

They are, unto themselves, cogs and gears and screws and inscrutable bits of machinery that spring from the barges when their cargo bursts out with the torpedo's quick rush its great shark hunger the dorsal fins barely cresting the waves and their desire an act of self-immolation. They will fall into a sublime cohesion a communion and then they will become the centrifuge to heave yourself into, to taste the wheel and rush and you are separated from this wicked venom this self-inflicted insanity called _compunction_.

 _Ah-ah-ah-ah_ , you're stayin' alive, and why bother living when you can just stage-dive into the throng into the crush and what does it even matter if there's anyone with hands upraised to bear you aloft? It. Ain't. The. _Point_. The bathrooms churn with the familiar cold antiseptic kiss on the nostrils; the mirrors are vast lambent panes, capturing and puking up the light again in its supersaturated ordinariness. It is still our obsession with a collective fictive consensus called _reality_. The taps brilliant bronze and the towels are dainty for the women whose freshly-powdered noses glint and twinkle with newly-bought virtue, effulgent like Fuji's snow-slathered peak.

They are beautiful; collectively supremely beautiful and there is always the lips' soft hungry quirk forever a bit of cum intuited on the breath and pussy, also. Why be an absolutist? The legs are long and lean and the bodies are ornamented in gradations of stern earnest exercise and fashionable anorexia and liquid diets and more than a bit of the surgeon's achingly graceful caress, the scalpel's dainty elegances. It is not to be brazen; there is worth in the subtle affectations of reality.

Even when the tits straining huge and plump and thick through the tight shimmering fabric costlier in their economy than anything cheap in its coverage are whimsically indifferent to gravity and to momentum. Even when the legs have tasted the weird warping alchemies in the hammer and the titanium stint.

They are beautiful; every one is beautiful to me. Their eyes entice and enchant and there is an irresistibly bloating awareness in the feathery wisdoms unfurling out out out from the spirit that there is something... Unreal here. In the eyes and the flesh, also.

Ah, ah, ah, you can _taste_ the rhythm palpitating through the walls with a synesthesia that no fanciful chemistry could conjure. Lolling tongue and the cum has become lotion daubed over every inch melting down and atomizing itself and _misting_ as a perfume that bleeds into the hunger and the lust and the craving that you _are_ now.

Ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, but what is it even to be alive when there is not sexual mayhem's mustiness but an elemental purity an _aura_ in what could only really be called a presence. It thunders, tolls; it is lightning rupturing the firmament with a glance and it is not quite the beauties in their multitudes tumbling into an outstretched arm. It is more fundamental than this. It is for a kiss to be craved and coveted with a wheeling carnal frenzy. It is all madness; it is all insanity.

It is all delectation. Dark eyes; this is what is savored most urgently. Darkened beyond black. The hair not the familiar Japanese perfection but something ostentatiously _studied_ in its too-cheap-to-be-cheap tackiness. A lavish cotton-candy grace unraveled along the cheeks; strata in fuchsia and garnet and carnation and neon sapphire and electrified amethyst and smeared with a dazzling effulgent metallic-flaked verdigris. The breasts are very very _very_ large; more than this. It is to be awed with your own flesh in reflection.

Perhaps to be dwarfed with this. Not the plastic-fantastic crudeness tucked into the other worthy ladies' clothing but something natural; tasted in the plump pert quivering tits goddess goddess goddess they could only be tits titties _juuuugs_ , oh, goddess, yeah. Heavy nipples and areolae vaster than silver dollars and there is a sable perfection in every inch. She is a black panther; she prowls with the leopard's fervor and her Japanese and her English and her French, also, are very very fine and the pitches sway and vacillate and the legs are more than long.

They rear up and she is taller still; six-three and this is a belief-beggaring madness to be tucked into her arms into the charred-obsidian _blackness_ that is awe in the creamy eyes and the curvaceous lips like cherry petals wrought in marshmallow-inflated fondant and there is more, also.

This sumptuous sweat-shimmering complexion; the veins tasted in their texture through the lean athletic muscle; the high high heels, also, ah, ah, the planet's beautifullest word, _slingback_. Because all is black, so, ah, slingblack? All is black but for the hair; the perfunctory skirt that _hugs_ the hips the delicious ass with a jealous lover's clawing cradling fanaticism; the top that's more an obedience to this delusion in ideal that we peddle as law.

And her kiss is mesmeric. It is a poison a hallucinogen and she is Goddess- _chan_ in her essence; all women have been graced with this rarefied bequest. But she is not one of Darwin's Losers or Winners but she is only something _sublime_. Hers is a beauty that defies nature; that is the essence of tongues tumbling out in a breathless adoration and there is something more.

Desperation.

Lips and fingers laced together. Her tongue yields a sticky allure in it slow stirring brush over the palate; the kiss is deeper than deep, wetter than wet. It is a broken dam and her fingers more than tantalize. They are a languorous sway; the bodies wilt and yield and rear up again, falling together and tumbling apart and we are drunks struggling to negotiate a corridor rippling and furrowed and twisted in a geometry that promises an irresistible narrowing and only bloats out more before crushing back into itself.

I will eat, and eat, and eat.

The eyes are indigo; they are another chromatic impossibility, and an invitation to hunger, and hunger, and hunger upon hunger, 'cause appetite comes always with eating. Appetite is the _act_ of eating. And it is not forever alone. More than a few of the worthy ladies the enchanting beauties, theirs is casual voyeurism, peering through the still stagnant gloom in the bathroom pounding with the club's distant rhythm while we feast upon what the law calls moral corruption.

Corrode ourselves.

 _Ah, ah, look at **that**._

 _Hey, d'ya think **she's** Japanese?_

 _She looks like it. But her boobs and her ass are so **big**._

 _Lookit that. Maybe she's an AV model._

 _Nah. I know **all** the big-titty AV models. What? What? What's so funny?_

Eat and eat and eat.

"Mmm... You're my hallucination, you know." Fingers and fingers; a disparity in complexions, mine and hers. The casual bits of color have been bleached in juxtaposition into invisibility. I am her culture's ghost, and she is mine. "What about _me_ , Miss Congolese?" Because this is her nation.

Congo.

Wet-Hot-Lush Delicious Papa Wembocratic Oilpublic of The Congo.

Or something. The voice is now a faint little murmur in my ear and it is to be overawed, _shackled_ to this murmur and sigh and shiver in the dewy breath's crest its crease its ripple and throb her mouth the predator's.

A sharp little nip; a cradling wet desire.

"Ngn..." The language is now not French or English or Japanese or aaaaanything but only carnality.

Oh, right, an' Lingala. Melodious and quick and chirruping and guttural and plunging and soaring in its pitches and almost senselessly indifferent to anything but its sublime investment in _beauty_. Beauty beauty beauty and the skin is obsidian kneaded with crude oil purified and perfected and I am become desire.

Craving her; her fingers simply unknotted from mine and falling down down down.

"I've never had a Japanese lady before." Ah, ah, ah, this sumptuous confession. The eyes impossible and the lips, also. The face in its elegant planes; in the confluences of sharpness and softness; in the rounded cheekbones and the firm jaw and there is delirium in all of this.

"No? I've never had a Wembonese lady, either-"

"You look _crazy_ , y'know, what is it?"

"Ayumi. Butcha can call me _Ayu-neeeeee_."

"That long-"

"Long enough." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it is tyranny or an ambition to it; it is for her shoulders bare and twinkling with sweat to graze one of the stalls in their monolithic heaps, assiduously segregated from one another lest one's dignity be affronted with basic biological necessities. We are all friends, yes?

Palms on her shoulders; a cheek to nuzzle one of hers; and now, now, the lips again. Ah, ah, this sumptuous formula that never is _anything_ so crude so cruel.

"Long long long long enough. Ah, ah, Sophie, your legs are so _long_." It is my will to adore without flattery; it is only reality's gradations pluming hot and thick and adulating from the lips.

"Do you think so?" While eyes flit down; while there is an awareness of contrast that, well, it isn't _cruel_ for y'r'humble narrator. But it's almost belief-beggaring. Why! They're longer than mine.

"Uh- _huh_. Longer'n mine."

"You're so tall for a Japanese."

"It's all the dissolute living. It's how we strengthen ourselves, you know. The Yamato spirit." Long-stemmed. This is what we are; and her legs are bare and the muscle twinkles in its elegant relief. "What're you, anyway? A supermodel?"

"Computers."

"You're computers? How many-"

"I mean, I _work_ with computers. You're cute and strange, you know, Ayu- _nee_." Ah, ah, _ah_. This word; these words; all of the words, really.

"I've _heard_ that. You work with computers? That's so strange. Why, I've never met _anyone_ who's so beautiful and who has such a _boring_ job." Kiss again and again and the tits, well, how can you not simply surrender to the lissome fingers laced through your hair?

Eased down down and there is a quiver and a gelid jiggle, also. The stockings draping my legs have begun to glint with sweat again; there is a long slow sensuous dance and it is to drown yourself in sensation.

"You're so _blunt_ , Ayu- _nee_. What do _you_ do?"

"Stuff. An' things. An' things an' stuff. Mos'ly fuck pretty girls. But I _do_ rape boyz sometimes, too. Oooh! Ooh! I trip balls; I trip _many_ balls-"

"Professionally?"

"That _is_ my profession. Reading about other people's superstitions is just a hobby people make me pay to do-"

"Oh, you're a _religions_ scholar, huh?" Dragged up and up and those are fingers in my hair; those are fingers on my _neck_. Epiphany! "I'm _really_ high."

"On entheogens?"

"On _coke_."

"Oooh! You must be so boring during the day."

"Hah. You're very blunt." Like a sledgehammer, baby.

Eased down, down, down. "A-ah, ah, won't you- won't you kiss them?" Oh, to be _invited_ into this sumptuous moral deliquescence.

"Why, _yes_ , I think I will." The lips dapple.

Daub.

Brush and adore. Lavish her with sticky gloss-enameled caresses; taste the simple geometries luscious huge heavy rearing up in a sumptuous escarpment and the fabric is less modesty and more elemental _support_. It is a tension courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers and it is nothing but dark-chocolate delirium.

She is one-hundred-percent cacao.

I am in lust; deeply and passionately in lust. Fingers on her belly and stealing up, and up, and up.

" _Maaaay_ I, mommy-"

"D-don't call me _mommy_ , Ayu- _nee_. I- I'm only thirty-"

"Then you... Well, 'kay, y'couldn't be my _mommy_. But _you_ should be Sophie- _nee_. Ayu- _nee_ is just... It's factually _inaccurate_. I'm not your older sister." Kiss; kiss.

Teeth brandished and sinking down now, because they are fangs, and the answer is _spasmodic_ ; is a convulsion in shudders rearing and racing and rocking up and down and all around the nerves every synapse _blazing_ with it.

"W-ah... Ah..." This is my answer; it is, incidentally, the _right_ answer.

Hah! Idiots. All of you. A _right_ answer? Fuck that. There _is_ no right answer. To anything. Rightness is something as elementally ridiculous as wrongness.

I retract this.

There is wrongness.

Yanni will always be wrong.

Yanni is the fucking _anti-Everything_.

But, otherwise? I will not speak in these dimensions they call _normative_. As ideals. And now you know, because we are all very erudite people, and academic babel and its shibboleths and this act of speaking in tongues like venom-crazed snake-handlers is all the rage now amongst people with money to dump into university presidents' accounts.

Lap and lick and lick and lap and now, now, the hands are emboldened because...

"A-ah, Big Sis, your tits are _huge_. They're bigger than even _mine_. Are all Wembatologists so _pretty_?"

"G-goddammit, Ayumi-"

"Call me _Lil' Sister_."

"Little Sister. Ah. Ah." With her head flung back and cheeks swept with cotton-candy elegances and there is now sweat deflating its elegant rippling vastness and it will settle with an aching grace over her shoulders.

And the words, the words, they are as devastating as any touch.

As the fine slim knee _nudged_ between my thighs.

"Lil' Sister, I-"

"What iiiis it?" Coo. Crazed. I am crazed; I am become _madness_ incarnate. Embodied. Personified. Lap and slather and the sweat _is_ perfumed with coke. "Oh, oh, oh, you _taste_ like the cocaína, y'know, my dahlink?"

"D-d'ya think so-"

"Do you _here_?" And it is to cast away anything like subtlety; it is a dancer's ease on your heels, sinking down down down rippling to the left and to the right and it is to know reality distending like superheated putty twisted through industrial machinery and these industrialities are artful and prismatic and shimmer with a nacre-lacquered sunset.

Kiss and kiss and kiss over the heavy heavy tits and the taut belly because there is a great deal of lean pert strength here; there is not the peasant's crudeness but a slim drum-taut grace and there is still the onyx-sleek skin's _softness_. Nuzzle and nip and it is obsession, isn't it, for the tongue to flit into the navel's tight divot dimple fall down down down and the skirt is a triviality. Don't even bother with _hiking_ it; it's a quirk quirk and a jerk and a fingertip's slipped into the hem the fabric shimmering elastic variegated in its hues its strange wheeling _proooobably_ Webalengalese pattern and it's only down, down, down.

"A-ah!" Shivering; the head not thrown back, because this is clearly not a novelty for her.

"Mmm... Y've never had a Japanese girl, but-"

"I- I went to Catholic school in Belgium." Ah, so there we are.

"Mooother superior, she jumped the gun, I hear-"

"She jumped _me_ ; that's for damn sure." Cooing. Because it is no longer Japanese but French and we are all very convivial with these tongues and she...

She is beautiful.

The geometries; the delta that is, yes, yes, the romantic cliché, this supermarket checkout cliché, but there are moments when cliché is simply the truth. It is lovely; it is archetypal. It is hair tightly-trimmed into graceful thick curls over the firm lips as comfortably absolutely _black_ as every other inch and it is to know their cinching shyness their affectations of timidity that is absolutely _nothing_ so authentic.

It is to kiss, and to kiss; it is her obedience or maybe mine, a dancer's high-kick easing one shapely leg up, and up, and up, and it is her fingers slipping sighing sibilant through hair through mine through _hers_ shoulders and back planted against the stall and it is a balletic grace, balanced on one high high high very _expensive_ designer heel and it is obvious in the familiar cosmetic shibboleths the garnet-stained sole the pride and pretension and prejudice in it.

And my shoes are cheap, because they are the cobbler's produce. I am not a weepy immigrant novel refugee; I am only conscious of these things that mean absolutely nothing to me. And these things that are most precious?

It is a supreme awareness. It is to nuzzle and paint yourself with her. It is sweeter than sweeter, damper than damper; a luscious _sodden_ hunger that weeps out in rarefied gradations of lust and it is self-evident, suddenly so oppressively painfully crushingly _obvious_.

"Ah, ah, big sister hasn't had _aaaany_ for so so long-"

"'course not!" A wail; a rubber-lipped tremor. "It- it's just so- so fucking unfair. People, they see me, and they say, _Ah, ah, no, I don't want her_ -"

"What they're saying is, _She's waaa-haaay_ _out of my league_ -"

"Doesn't matter." While you're simply _cradled_ in the thighs; while the fine tight curls begin to mat with sweat and Sappho's sumptuous rain. While there are kisses dappled now across that juncture of thigh and hip and pelvis and there is _heat_. Heat heat heat. Scalding. "Doesn't matter.

"T-that, or whatever-"

"Oh, b'lieve me, I _know_. Japanese men and Chinese and American and _whatever_ , they're all the same. Two-dee's easier than three-dee; the _pretty_ girl is less intimidating than the beauty. Right, right?"

"It _is_ righ-hiiight!" A squeal; an authentic _squeal_ because now, now, there is a kiss. Because it is a perpendicular kiss; the horizontal converges with the vertical and she is _desperately_ wet now. Because she is hungry. "And- and I was so happy about Japan 'cause you don't even _need_ condoms here-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. A _bad_ mistake, honey." A _swat_ at the pussy's soft taut lips with admonishing quick fingers.

"W-well, there's not-"

"Ah-ah- _ah_. Boyz are just _boo-ring_. Sure, they're fun, but girls are even _better_. Right? Right?" Kiss; and kiss; and kiss. Lips slathered with shimmering gloss and now _she_ confers another layer. Smear her on me; adorn myself with her. Kiss and kiss and the kisses are deeper, deeper. _Wetter_. A quick trembling squelch and it is answered with a voice that _soars_ , rears higher and higher and higher.

"A-ah, ah, touch- touch me more, Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Ooh, oh, how _Japanese_ we are now. Call me lil' sis-"

"Little sister. Little sister. Little sister." Growling groaning hungering. "I- I want to touch you-"

"Uh- _uh_. I'm hungry, Big Sis. Lemme eat, and _then_ we'll talk. Then we'll talk." Or, well, something. With lips more than a little pussy-preoccupied, who the hell cares what's even said? It's only that she's stilled and quieted with the kissy-kissy-kissy bliss and the lips have become numb.

Peer up at her through lashes shimmering with the lucent twinkling points _dragged_ from her; the tongue is a mischievous wickedness, spearing between plump lush lips and twisted up and down and up and down and there's a honeyed delirium in it and even _this_ is sodden with coke.

Everything is coke; is this bourgeois plea for liberation. The coke, you understand, it is _the fuel_ for the great centrifuge that will separate you from your inhibitions if you are so cruelly shackled in life and in love, also. Kiss her and sink into the wet sumptuous heat; her cries rear up and settle they _precipitate_ like black rain gathering from an atom bomb and they will deafen like the blast, also, flattening against walls and spalling like shrapnel and tumbling back into the ears.

Kiss, kiss, kiss; lave and lap and slather and slither and the tongue is not intruder not invader but only a guest urged closer, and closer, because the lissome calf laced over my shoulder the knee _ground_ into it have fashioned a pincer and they are crushing tearing _pulling_.

"K-kiss me deeper. E-eat my pussy; eat my pussy; eat eat _eat_ my pussy. I'm gonna come; I'm gonna come so fast!" This is not woe; this is not a man's defect. That cruelty named refractory. It is a quiver and there is nothing but merely its _heat_ beneath the lips. I will eat and eat and this is a ballad that must be savored and tasted on the ears and on the mouth and tongue again and again and again to adore in its fullest depth.

Perhaps its joy will and cannot ever be exhausted; you will never weary of it.

Slather and coil and the mouth is _jerked_ open with her long searching reaching fingers' plea and they are laced into hair and they comb and stroke and adore and there is a serenade a symphonic sexuality trilling up from her lips.

The strange tongue that is Lingala stitched with bits of French. Lap, lap, kiss, kiss, tongue rolling out and impaling pumping plunging _fucking_ her with its fullest length the texture in those few bits of cocainated experience something that _does_ validate its one true worth.

It is in its sensitivity; it is the frayed-nerved perfection, the sense of glass steeped in Spanish fly ground into every neuron and squeezed and the pain is wrung out and only the bliss in its enormity survives and I must _eat_. A thigh hot and slick with sweat and tight with muscle and still oh so _sumptuous_ with fat's tiniest kiss that femininity that cannot simply be so whimsically cast away, must never be, it is clasped against my right ear; the left exposed to the every warble and weeping cry that mantles up up up along exotic trilling pitches.

"It- it feels so gooood!"

Oh, it must.

Yes.

"H-ah, hah, hah, hah, ah, ah, Ayumi, Ayumi, _Ayumi_." Trembling.

Shivering.

A finger now laced up between the lips and it is the communion of tongue and warmth and hand and desire and clamoring.

She is craving.

Pulling.

Jerking.

"More. More. More. More. I want- I want more. I wanna be rough-"

"Then _be_." Why why _why_ would you ever plead for permission when you can beg for forgiveness knelt and groveling and beseeching more abuse in return, a point of three-by-three-by- _whatever_. "I want it; we're all friends here-"

"Ah, ah, you're serious?" Gawping down.

And there is illustration.

Is embellishment.

Ah, is _this_ what has painted her into the lonely woeful beauty? Is it perhaps The Y-Chromosome's failure to appreciate an assertive woman's allure, or is it a violent woman's? Or does it even fucking matter- ah, ah, no, no, no, it does not at all!

It is fingers laced up between the lips the knuckles ground into powder you should snort but it isn't enough at _all_. Her hand twisted around my throat and the leg has eased down woefully _mournfully_ away but what the fuck's it matter when there's a sudden urgent _jerk_. A violent lunge and twist and it is to levitate in her arms; or almost, anyway, your own body a rocketing hunger and you are standing, standing, because this is her will.

 _Crashing_ against a wall; palms slapped around your cheeks and there is an authentic squeal from the throat wringing itself from the breast because this is legitimate insanity. She is kissed with Goddess- _chan_ 's rarefied wisdom; she is animated with her esoterica.

"'m so fucking _hungry_. Can't believe how hungry I am. I- I can do anything?" Pleading.

Beseeching.

It is the reality in this play-pretend slavery; it is power's responsibility and surrender's sublime privilege.

"Don't _kill_ me-"

"'s not what I want. I'm not that kinda girl."

"Then, yeah. Sure." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

"Y'taste like pussy, Little Sister. Ah... Ah, dammit, dammit, Little Sister. Little Sister." Her long fine fingers; her unpretentiously _brazen_ lililicious nails.

They twist.

Pull.

The top dragged down and skirt hiked up and it is to know their union stitched across my belly; palms and long outstretched digits cradle and pluck and tug at the dimpling flesh that lies at the borderlands between stockings and thighs and they will fall down and rear up again and she is simply appetite embodied.

It is not in sublimated hungers from some pretentious anorexia; no, no, no. She is only the bulimic now, eating and eating and eating. Lips on my throat and paired fingers slithering coiling slaloming up up up the thighs and _impaling_.

Spearing me.

Voice lacquers itself over the hungers vaulting up slithering undulating serpentine; it is to be enticed tantalized with the snake-charmer and I am the cobra and her body is the command. Stirring, twisting; a knowledgeable ravenousness and the fingers' fine satin pads are brushed stroked _swept_ in slow patient _exactingly_ perfectly coordinated.

It is something almost inhumane, this delirium that's sent wheeling in huge opaque sprays across the eyes; a neon-napalm ambiance, swept and slathered and teased and terrorized and _tormented_ with it. Her tongue's wet sweet delectation. Another hand on my neck; a slow patient squeeze and it's with ambition to wringing black abysmal motes through the eyes.

The touch is perfection; is to capture the swaying rocking vacillation in bliss' nerve-numbing convolutions; to capture you at orgasm's highest peak and to urge it back up up up away from that ebb and it's never with anything like patience, like relief.

There is no _recession_ ; it is waves rearing up and teased and tyrannized with some novel _whatevermancy_ and warped into a great unbroken plateau over which your bare toes and soles sway and slip and pirouette. She is a dancer in everything; her body is pitch and pivot and it is to rock against me; a hip becomes her toy, and now, now, it is a hand dragged down.

"I want you to _scream_. I want you to try to _scream_ ; I want you to cry with those big beautiful dark eyes, Little Sister. I want you to be scared. Is that weird? Is that horrible?" Whispering; whispering; the voice is thick, is hot, sweet, an overripe peach mashed into your ear and draped with lighter fluid and set ablaze.

It is stained in ethanol madness.

"I wanna do lines over these big beautiful titties. I want you to be _scared_ , Little Sister. Will you be scared for me?"

"T-terrified." Because there is no need for play-pretend when there is simply the moment's authenticity; when there is her palm that becomes a fist and the knuckles are not _battered_ at the ribs but they are a quick wet _slap_ once and twice and now, now, it is the hand dragged up and it is an arm drawn back and the slap is to sacrifice nothing but a moment's pain a sharp _crunch_ on a cheek.

"You slutty Little Sister-"

"O-oh, oh, I'm _not_ , Big Sis! Please!" With humongous guileless eyes and we must be we are _become_ these desires and the women have now taken their leave, because these games, well, they are perhaps not to their lusts or satisfaction or perhaps they are altogether too violent in their cognitivedissonance. Please, please, return to your tables your tedious rhythm-retarded dancing.

But here, here, where bells are being rung, where you are stayin' alive, oh, there is _very_ much a desire for an audience. In her cheeks _purpling_ in their blackness.

"You _are_. I saw you, Little Sister. You're such a fucking _slut_. A whore. Aren't you? Aren't you?" Eyes boil, throb, _bubble_ with an unpretentious madness now. "You were just teasing me, right, Little Sister?" With fingers digging deep, deep.

"Nya, I'm _reallly_ not. I- I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Screwing around with your classmates. Trying to make me jealous." Yes, yes, there are perhaps these things we call _issues_.

I do not care.

Another slap; huge and pummeling and now, now, they are very quick and graceful, one-two-three-one-two-three a waltzing punishment.

"I'm gonna punish you, Little Sister. I'll punish you 'til you know only _Big Sister_ is the one for you." And you could, of course, be adorable.

Syrupy.

Why?

"Ah! I- I don't want it, Big Sister. Don't; don't do this-"

"Oh, you're _begging_ for it now. Down; get the fuck _down_ on your knees. Get on your knees." To be beaten, because it is what you crave, what _she_ demands. Not hunched but _knelt_ ; fingers _wringing_ terrific huge _gouts_ in anguish from the lips.

"W-wah! Ah! It- it hurts, Big Sister-"

"I _hope_ so. You're the biggest fucking slut I've ever seen; you're the school's _hugest_ whore. An' not _one_ kiss for Big Sister?" Oh, oh, we are _defying_ reality's boundaries.

But who cares?

Stockings cradle and are no insulation; they are aesthetic grandeur alone while the bone _cracks_ into cold tile and there are only hands, hands, hands. Fingers coil up _rip_ into hair there is violence urgent humongous there is the delirium in being pussy-blinded in the most authentic way.

Her hips her pelvis her wet soft skin it is my universe now; dripping soft lips _crammed_ against mine.

"Eat my pussy. You're gonna eat my pussy 'til you _drown_ , Little Sister. I- I'm going to show you why you belong to _me_ ; only to me. T-tell me. Tell me. Tell me how much of a _whore_ you are, Little Sister."

"N-nuh- _uh_. I'm not; you're _crazy_." It's a plea for more, more, more. For the abuse in her hips as a cudgel, battering beating _pounding_ swatting slapping it's irrumatio in Sapphic sublimity it is to be ground against her it is to be her toy an _implement_ an object.

Fingers in my hair; a palm reserved for the cheek.

The universe trembles with every urgent heavy crack _drenched_ with her; it is lubrication for the pain, for the sonic _mayhem_ that whirls around us.

It is a squeeze on the throat.

"I- I wish I could jam it down your throat; I'd fuck your filthy slut-mouth."

"N-nyah. No. No. Don't do _that_." It is to coo; to tease.

"I wish I could make you _cry_."

Doitdoitdoitdoit.

A tug.

A _yank_.

Tears boil up in their syrupy counterfeit from eyes bubbling and wide and _vast_ and trembling with the simple sensual _anguish_ in the hair about a micron from being loosed from its follicles and it is now now now only the simple selfishness in fucking.

Face-fucking; being pounded pumped against her.

"Stick out your tongue; stick out your tongue, y'fuckin' slutty sister."

"O-okay." With surrender; with body dipping down down and it's to be ridden while you're knelt, a plinth, a pedestal for her. Writhing and rocking in her delirious balance and eyes monopolize _mine_ and it is a tongue reaching coiling up up up _ground_ into her pussy. Slipped and slathered over the fine pearl that bloats strains with indecorous _hugeness_ through the veil and thighs strain and cinch and there is only violence.

 _Heaved_ against it.

"Lick my clit; lick my clitty. D-do it fucking _harder_ , you shitty slutty fuck-sister." Yes. Yes. Yes.

The simple _madness_ in the eyes.

Flailing thrashing and now, now, it's only for the tongue to be hardened into steel-girded wet velvet; it is to offer her a canvas on which to paint those lusts her pussy smearing itself up down left right twisting coiling-

"You lazy fucking _bitch_." And there's authentic awe; astonishment. A hand limning an unseen arc and it's the experience of being _slapped_ down onto the floor, eyes in an interval between blinks transfixed with the ceiling's whorling strange patterns. Knees twist around cheeks and it's credibly crazy. All right.

Yes.

She _could_ possibly murder me.

Too bad, I guess.

Grinding grinding rearing up falling down and slumping back and it's now not lips but my chest; it's a masculine fervor a fanatical clamoring _obsession_ with that heavy flesh wet with sweat with her.

Capturing a nipple with those lips and bearing down, down, a _crushing_ urgent violence that jerks the breath from your lungs.

If there were any, anyway, with the fingers' twist and cinch and the simple authentic brutality in the squeezing the clenching the clutching the _straining_.

"You're so fucking delicious, slutty lil' sister. I want you. I want you. I wish I could really _really_ _**really**_ rape you; I wish I could fuck your pussy 'til it breaks; I wish I could make you scream and scream and scream and _howl_.

"I wish I'd brought a toy-"

"I- I have a toy!" Wheezing it out and how can you not? "I- I am your slutty sister; that's right. I'm so sorry I lied to you, Big Sister-"

"You fucking _whore_!" It's no longer even a palm; it's the back of a hand and there's forever the clutch slung around your shoulder still tucked on the counter's vast bank beside a sink. "You fucking _whore_ ; you slut; you nasty little _bitch_." Crumpling back on your shoulders and there is blood.

Awe and astonishment without contrition; a hand upraised and it's trembling fingers and you could...

Could drink and drink and drink this like champagne for months and years; condense it into a fine liquor and shotgun it with liquid heroin.

"Ah, ah, Big Sister, I'm really- I'm really not _that_ wicked-"

"Yes, you are. That's all you are; you're just a hole to be fucked, Little Sister." Knelt now; her hips crashed against lips again and it's no longer satisfaction with fucking my breasts but only a supreme selfish hunger. "You're- you're driving me crazy.

"You always have; I love Japanese girls." Ah, ah, ah, and now fourth walls and narrative integrity are _melting_. Twisting and wheeling and it is now that most sainted number, and it is to bow bow bow tumble down and thighs _cinch_ into my cheeks and her belly in its taut flat muscularity slips in its fine planes to the heavy tits bared with a _jerk_ at the top and they're spilling _falling_ out and there's only a wish that _she_ had bothered with stockings.

Just once.

A bit.

Ah, ah.

'cause the bare legs are absolutely sumptuous and it's mutual desire and it is a play-pretend violation; it is her fingers long and twisting and just _daggered_ between the thighs it is her hips falling _pounding_ down down face-fucking writhing rippling rhythmic huge ragged jerks and sways and her touch is not incidental because it is so _fundamental_ to the production.

It is long lowing plangent screams dragged from my throat; it is a palm slapped once and twice and again and again and again a cracking urgent hot merciless frenzy against those lips still weeping cum still bubbling with hunger with a violent crunching cinching insanity her fingers vanishing there now.

Two, three, it's a merciless _grinding_ enormity; it's nails biting into my thighs.

"A-ah, Little Sister, you have the _nicest_ legs; these pretty thighs. Look at you. You're so soft; your pussy's _smeared_ with cum. You're such a nasty slutty sis." A kiss, kiss, kiss.

There's no answer for her; nothing but heavy hot guttural moans and mewls and a sudden convulsive _screech_ when that wet soft flesh bears down when the universe is shadow in its fine satiny obsidian gradations the onyx skin twinkling with sweat the faint lights creeping through the great living nimbus that pummels pounds down down down and it's her fingers it's a _fourth_ eased into me straining struggling and it's...

It's all _insanity_.

"You taste like jizz, lil' sister." Oh, oh, _oh_. Her lips tugged away and a scalding thick-throated indictment _flung_ over her shoulder. "You're such a fucking _slut_ ; this nasty sashimi pussy just _stinks_ with a man's cum but it's so...

"So fresh, too. It tastes so _sweet_. You're like an angel, too. A slutty depraved angel and- and, ah... Ah!" Fucking her fucking her fucking her.

Tongue impaling her; skewering the soft skin that hungry mouth just wilting open laved and slavered over and just _devoured_. Sexual carnage. This is the only possibility in these geometries. Fingers splayed open and twisting and...

"I- I wonder if I can get my whole _hand_ into this slutty cunt." Oh.

Oh.

Goddess, it's...

"D-don't do _thaaat_!" Or, well, something like it.

Muffled twisted clauses and phonics and sonics and everything is swallowed between shuddering thighs and... And it _is_ her thumb now. It's more than pressure; it's steel against steel. It is grappling iron grizzly bears and it is... It is still for the flesh to yield now, slathered with her tongue's smearing spittle with the juices welling up heavy and honeyed and syrupy from that heaving hot cauldron in the hips and...

"A-ah, ah, ah, Big Sister, _no_!" A scream; a legitimate scream.

Authentic tears.

Because the _gulf_ between four fingers and five is something that beggars belief; it is huger than every ocean tossed into a contiguous sprawl and it is still there and... And it's to be splayed _split_ apart it's a scream a wail a howl once and again and again and again and it's her weight being _hurled_ into me.

"Take it, you fucking nasty whore."

"A-ah, ah, awahaaa!" Wheeling sonorous nonsense; there's melody _music_ in the wailing in the trilling torment and the heat is humongous, flaring around her and it's sinking sinking sinking and finally...

It should be a _pop_ , shouldn't it? Suddenly just rearing up through the ears but it's a silent numbing _convulsion_ ; it's a heat that's Chernobyl in your belly it's a bliss a delirium scalding stitching up up up electric with the simple bulk it's violence crashing at your cervix it's barriers being battered down.

"I have my _whole_ hand in your slutty fucking _cunt_ , Little Sister."

"T-take it out-"

"Oh, no, no, _no_." Beg and plead because this is what _both_ of you crave; lap and lick and kiss because this is what is _needed_. Savor the syrupy delectation in woman on your tongue; and hers is flitting coiling kissing _adoring_. Slathering itself over my own Little Red Riding Hood.

"Ah, ah, you taste so _sweet_ , lil' sister-"

"It's- you're so _meaaan_!" Thighs squeeze and clench and who fucking cares about _anything_ when... When it's her fine slender fist that's huger than a tank crashing through me just- just _dragged_ in and out now. Not its full length; little more than an _inch_ 's displacement.

It's eternities.

Twisting.

Pulling.

Wrenching.

Jerking.

"W-ahaaaa! It's- it's so big, sis-"

"You're such a fucking slut, I _know_ you can take it. Maybe two." Oh, _Goddess_ , no!

"N-no, no, you _can't_ do that-"

"Maaaybe." She's drunk with this, isn't she? Who can blame her? Slapping and spanking and it's only endless quaking convulsion; it's your bare ass on the floor and it's heaving and writhing and it's... It's so _immense_ it's nearer to numbness than anything ever tasted.

"And now I'm gonna _fuck_ your nasty slut-hole with the toy you brought with you." Oh, oh, _oh_ , yes. Yes, yes, yes.

Torn from me.

A quick jerk and _that_ is the _pop_.

Violent.

Sputtering.

 _Drenched_ ; drooling down her knuckles her fucking _wrists_ wreathed with me when she's standing, standing, staggering fuck-drunk to the bag.

"Damn, you're just- you're _such_ a naughty girl. Lookit this shit." Muttering; fingers rummage twist tug pull and _there_ it is.

It's something strange. Half-remembered. Since when the hell _do_ I have that? But it's a perfection; a cohesive long sinuous thing that's conceived only to tease to delight to adore.

A perfect symmetry; a double-headed dragon a mythical thing in violet to be _eased_ between her thighs.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Little Sister." The eyes are madness.

I must surrender.

There is only quiescence; only a glance up up up at the humongous eyes trembling brittle a quality like ice's first coalescing _sheen_ on water with the freezer's dappling chill and it could yield with the tiniest rap and there's only a wish for everything to break. For the chill to become an inverted inferno a swarm in tufted feathered snow crystalline fine fine fine but collective cohering into a mist so vast so oppressive that rain to become the snow cannot even be conceived in this place. For the _hardness_ to become absolute; for a sledgehammer to caress it with a smith's zeal pummeling pounding rattling rasping 'til everything simply _disintegrates_ on that anvil.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Reality is not a malleable thing; no, no, no. It is not absolute, not a supreme certitude, but this isn't the point. Not while that colossal bloated bulk swells flares up not while the eyes tremble in their rarefied and _impossible_ indigo more plastic-fantastic than even the straining long arc unfurling from curvaceous thighs from that delta that sumptuous geometry.

"I'm gonna fuck you, Little Sister. I'm gonna fuck you. I'm gonna fuck you 'til you can't even _stand_ ; y'won't run away from me after that."

"Ah! Ah! No, no, _no_." There is the tease; there is a playful arch and sway and rock and there is a will never ever ever _ever_ to scrabble away and there must be the Eurodisco frenzy in this, in the _Planet O_ madness the pirates from the Planet O, oh, oh, _ooooh_!

Hallelujah!

The music throbs heavy and lavish in the ears; all is servant to _this_. Her hips; mine; her fingers; mine. Sway and vacillate and we are woman, ah, ah, ah, this elemental _perfection_ in the flesh rioting throbbing _trembling_ every strand animated with an unreal sonic sorcery with the trembling beat that _heaves_ itself up up up through every nerve. That becomes a presence a sumptuous poison in the blood.

That is your defilement; you cannot crave purity.

"A-ah, Big Sister, you _can't_ -"

"You _are_ gonna get fucked." Closer, closer, closer. Always, always this ideal. It is the elementary perfection in the body and her eyes have melted down like Fukushima's bequest to the oceans and we are rich and lathering with a corruption surpassing _all_ else. It is theological; it is spiritual; it is transcendental. It kisses creases the spirit tattoos itself upon every inch every mote every morsel.

The atoms are carved apart are twisted and broken on their own subatomic axes and these subatomic bits, also, must be riven open. Her hands. Finally. Finally. Tug. Tear. Settling down down down and it is not with the gentleness in a parachute's elegant velvet ripples and tremors but it is with a ballistic missile's fervor. It is gravity's accumulated mayhem it is a screaming madness warped and twisted and broken and misshapen with the heat and its violences and it is febrile and it is her palms on my shoulders.

It is with a violence like a brick crunching through plate glass. We will reenact riot and mayhem and war in this place wrought in sainted sanitized perfections; in the thighs splayed apart in fabric steeped in sweat in the swelter and it is a nakedness that is without innocence, without the Edenesque _ignorance_ of one's own flesh. It is to taste the impurity the defilement in this; it is to frolic through carnal mist it is to paint yourself in grades of sainted _nature_. It is a human delectation.

It is with ankles trembling lashed in their high high heels the groaning shimmering leather black in the cold light spilling from the ceiling it is knowing a deep amniotic throb it is not a heart's beat and not a mother's and child's at once but a universe. It is ranks of life and death, also; it is a sublimity it is a symmetry.

We have been consecrated not to Creation and not to Destruction and not to God or gods or demons demonesses I am she who is named Hawa whom you call Eve and Lilith, also, and it surpasses _all_ of this. Goddess- _chan_ 's venom has been teased through every artery and it springs with great heavy roots pluming spearing ripping rippling wriggling I am being _filled_ with Her Spirit. The Holy Spirit.

Ah, ah, _ah_!

Why stay alive?

Do not merely peer up; it is to know an urgent plunge a _crash_ a quality like a rocket-propelled brick hammering into your spine and shoulders with the palms simply _slapped_ at my breasts. Driven down down down and it is tits trembling hers mine it is sumptuous juxtaposition it is not night and day but twilights in their extremes the heavy wet gradations lambent with a mist that smears itself like gelatin on every sense.

She is here.

"A-ah, ah, Big Sister-"

"Open your mouth, y'fuckin' slutty sis-"

"N-no, no, you can't. You can't do _that_!" While it _looms_ ; while she and _it_ are one and they are a strange conjoined being a dreadful bestial presence whose adoration can only be invited with her fingers laced through hair with a brutal irresistible _jerk_.

There is nothing merely firm; a boulder is not simply _firm_. It is not a palm but _that_ ; but the centaur's flesh but this surrealist chimera in violet latex shimmering with its own native luster with the sexual madness that doesn't merely flare but rears heaves _pours_ from the broken-dam grace that is the supersaturated lust between her thighs.

Prodding.

Jabbing. She is become madness; I am its conveyor. Its Typhoid Mary. With the supremest most passionate zeal; a graze against my cheek. The makeup is not stirred is not disturbed but forever indelible with its strange airbrushed satin elegance. It is to be the painted woman; it is to be _anointed_ , perhaps. The groaning latex flesh shimmering slathered with her with that honeyed lust is a carnal paintbrush; it is an implement to ornament, to embellish. I am her canvas, and it is swept stirred slowly slowly a quick stroke and an achingly patient brush grinding up up up and down again.

It is a fanaticism for cohesion, for homogeneity; for an absolute _perfection_ in its portraiture wrought in the geometry's negative.

"A-ah, ah, it feels... Your face feels so _good_ , Little Sister." Cooing and quivering and now, now, it can only be fingers teased up _laced_ through hair and a jerk and a pull and it is lips. "Suck it; suck it. Suck on me, Little Sister-"

"No! No!" Because you must resist, because this is the order. It is more fundamental than you or I, you understand. We are midgets upon ants beside its enormity; we will cower and _implode_ under its enormity. The Order is all.

Ah, ah, ah, it is not this sainted figment named Law it is not any lie, The Big Lie or even the tinier ones in their great constellation that are to this as the thread is to the carpeting. It is something profounder still. It is the sun and the moon in their waltz it is her trembling knees her thighs _seamed_ with the turbulence rearing up through every inch.

Consecrate me and sanctify _us_ to this; slip the artifacts from their tabernacle let the reliquaries stand open and pull down the walls and twist the sacral cities into dust with the great wheeling crunching iron talons and eat and eat and eat and...

"O-open your mouth, Little Sister. You're such a _slutty_ little sister; you're gonna need to get it _aaaalll_ wet. Like you're not already fuckin' _drenched_. But I want it; I want it. I feel it. I feel it. It- it's not just _in_ mee!" Wailing and warbling and surrender is all.

Surrender is life and reality and it is with fingers _twisting_ jerking it is tears bleeding through your sight in strange dreamy muddling whorls and whirls and it is for all to be reality by van Gogh. Not _Starry Night_ but simply starry _everything_.

Beaten and battered.

Yes.

Yes.

Hate me crush me _raaavage_ me. More and more and more tear open my jaws and it's a scream and yowl and it's _there_ ; at once, at once, with nothing but the supremest selfishness, it is here. A perfected self-abnegation in its narcissism; it is animal in its purity, its untroubled and unpretentious and _absolute_ indifference to those absolutes. It is to rut and rock and heave and it is that thick straining latex bliss _ground_ between jaws it is a sumptuous apathy to raking ripping teeth that become as fangs that gnash and bite and struggle and it can be the absolute indifference to any desires but _this_.

Even your own soul your own agency have become something almost anachronistic; strange delirious figments that do not that _cannot_ belong in a universe that has shrugged off like a fragile mist any compunction at all.

"Suck it; suck it." Tearing pulling tyrannizing; a ragged huge cough dragged from the throat because it is jabbing at the palate twisting into my neck and it is with the hips' undulation their rock their pitch and pummel and it's fucking _humongous_ , driven down down down and...

And I want it. I want more more _more_. Want to taste its novel prodding invasion into my belly. But there can only be a humongous tormented wheeze palms slapped at her hips. It is the body's collision with the soul. The soul craves more; the body thinks nothing of its trivialities in breath, in anything as banal as _simple_ as oxygen.

Fuck it all.

Torn out now, a thick quavering tendril drooping between us; an effulgent sticky bit of spittle drawn from deeper than deep in the throat. Those syrupy lusts are sewn through it, _alloyed_ into my saliva; and it is _slapped_ at a cheek.

"You're such a nasty fuckin' slut. Look at you, drooling so much it looks like I already creamed your mouth. But I'm not fuckin' _finished_." Snarling guttural _hot_. "I should just choke you 'til you suffocate."

"N-nya, _nya_ ," mewling whimpering _pleading_ , also, 'cause it is the production. It is my hands slapped on heavy tits _my_ tits digging tearing _biting_ into the flesh. "Y'can't do that, Big Sister. I- I'll be good-"

"I don't _care_. I want you _bad_ , you nasty little whore. That's what I want. That filthy jizz-dripping pussy is just _too_ dirty. You're only good as a fuck-hole." The words are brutaler than any hand; sterner crueler more delectably _wicked_ than her hand's sharp wet crack and crash on a cheek.

Wailing howling _squalling_.

"Nya, nya, _don't_ , big sis-"

"I'm fuckin' _finished_ with being so _nice_." Dragged up and then _heaved_ down again, shoulders and ass wet and slapping on the tiles and it is not being mounted. No, no. There are no such niceties. It is a supreme selfishness; it is sexual narcissism, but it is not the wickedness' authenticity. It is not masturbating with another's body as a heap of warm meat psychically dying cold and numb while the flesh still _is_.

Uh-uh- _uh_.

A howl _torn_ from the throat when it's just... Just _crashing_ between thighs that're adorned with her fingers her palms slapping pounding pummeling a cinching crushing tension that surpasses anything anything _anything_. More than violent, more than relentless. It is to be split apart; she is an ax crunching through the lumber's seams stitching through its grain and it splintering now, a heaving crazed wail on the lips.

It's to be buffeted, battered, a sudden urgent thrashing turbulence and it is her hips driving that monstrous bloated plum-hued bit of beauteous brutality up up up and through that flesh slathered with her with her tongue her fingers with Ran with Haibara with eeeeveryone. Lubricated with man and adored with woman and it is squelching wet _twisted_ open more and more and more and the voice crests its passage against a barrier that's a mutual shocking _convulsion_.

"F-fuck! Fuck!" Her eyes. Mine. Her hands splaying thighs open wider, wider, huger, heels clamped on the faint grouted gradations in the tile's checkerboard pattern and it is her knees on the cold clammy alabaster and it is to be her plinth her mount. "F-fuck! Fuck! Lookit that!" It is the fullest communion that the body can accommodate and not _nearly_ fucking enough. No, no, no. "I- I'm totally bottomed out in you!" Warbling.

Lips wet and shimmering with sweat and gloss.

"It's- it's bottomed out in _me_!" It is a graceful reciprocity, seesawing, this raucous riotous raw roaring passage up up up through the cosmos to Planet Oooooooooooo.

"A-ah. Ah. Ah." Fuck her while she fucks me; twist back through her and there's electricity ripping up through the body great serrated talons that're dragged scraped through ragged meat. The body has melted down beyond its simple elements beyond its constituent cells its biologic vicissitudes and has become _abstraction_.

It is a figure a being a perfection a _transcendence_ wrought in sensuality alone. It is those bits of trembling psychosis the voice and the fingers and hands and a plea for bare bare exposed _everything_ and it is every cry it is wails and pleas and they levitate over the Pacific and they capture the wind the great gusts the volcanic madness pluming up from unseen islands that man's hand has never desecrated and they soar higher and higher and higher.

They cannot fall again.

Her hands; her fingers. They guide and warp and twist and Little Sister and Big Sister have been flayed from us, also, not because they are ridiculous or because they are not but because suddenly, suddenly, thought has wizened to the autonomic, to the shark's fuck-eat binary but one of them has just been _prised_ away with a crowbar.

There is only one word. One. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Ah, ah, ah, the _voice_. A knee twisted up to my chest and _slapping_ with a quick undulating stroke against tits and now the second and it is to _brace_ her weight aloft crashing down and springing back up with a recoiling strength in the muscle. Her hands tear.

Her fingers tug and pull.

It is to be ripped apart it is an animal act it is something wickeder more crazed than any rape, because it is being pushed through boundaries that don't lie alone in the meat and in the bone. It is to know a strange metaphorical parallel; peer along the assembly-line carnal carnage and there is not only _mine_ but every body at once not being elegantly dismantled but being broken and battered and stitched together again with a masterful Doctor Moreau insanity and it is an expertise without boundary.

There is a _command_ of the body; it is an intuitive ease and elegance and the joints can be mended and they can be made even _perfecter_ now.

"Ah, ah, ah." We have no need for names. Is it her voice, or is it mine, or does it even matter at all? The cervix has become a drum's taut diaphragm; it is battered and beaten and its answer is not through the flesh but the voice rising up up up.

A howl.

And hers, also, because this is a sumptuous mutual algolagnia. It is a will to abuse and to torture and be abused and tortured in turn. Kiss her, and kiss her, and now, now, it is with strength and with absolute _weakness_ that the universe twists and wheels on its axis and _I_ am now the conqueror I am the tyrant.

"A-ah!" Her eyes huger than huge; great feasts should be served upon their rarefied amethyst. Peer down and it is _my_ tits to swing to sway to become pendulous and quake and shudder and for nipples to graze hers and her body to melt under mine. It is her hips in their broad lush ambit to be _crushed_ with her quivering ass onto the tiles; it is _her_ thighs to bear aloft fingers steeled in iron-girder convolutions.

I am now this world's architectural hubris, soaring up up up. I will be the Mistress, _lancing_ through her. An ambition to drive it deeper, deeper.

"I- I wish I could fucking _impregnate_ you with it!" Bleating and bellowing down at her. Sweat becomes mist becomes a rain, pelting at her brow, rattling over the effulgent onyx skin and settling in her fine collarbone's graceful dip and undulation. "I wish I could _tear_ you in half. I wish- I wish I could fuck you deeper an' deeeeeper!" Bleat and bellow.

There is...

There is not a studied indifference to orgasm. It is just to toss away the familiar grades and measures; the senseless consensuses in the flesh. Orgasm? Coming? Oh, oh, oh, it _is_ there, but it's not the familiar waves melting into frothing bubbling wreckage on a ragged shoreline.

It is to _surf_ on a great tsunami rearing up and thundering along a world wrought from an ocean alone, wheeling around again and again and again. It is for _everything_ to become the erogenous; it is for her toes to tremble and curl in the stockings and for _this_ act alone this whisper of sodden fabric to twist itself through misfiring rewired neurons into napalm springs that burble and _blaze_ up through the breast.

Head thrown back when her palm grazes a shoulder, because this is the night's deepest and most murderously _intense_ bliss. Smeared with gouache in scalding hot gold; reality the light become a lead-white mist in the pummeling burnished heat that effaces anything like texture and grade in your sight.

A scream.

Tear into her; on your hips and now, now, it's nothing at all like tyranny and surrender. It is an equanimity in thighs twisting together in her fingers laced with mine it is her kiss, again and again and again and it is to sob and sob and sob with sexual with _theological_ epiphany. Goddess- _chan_ 's sumptuous wisdoms become mine and mine become hers, also.

We will unite.

"Well, well, well, look at _this_. It looks like you're fucking each other with the world's biggest autumn eggplant." It is not broken; this thrall is not ruptured at all. It is only an intrusion; it is the ease the grace with which the voice slithers like a wind stirring an unleavened stagnant summer swelter stitches itself through the soul. It is a sense of awe. Eyes enormous and craning up; both of us simply gawping without any ambition to an _end_.

She is beautiful. It is more than familiar. She is my wormwood madness; she is hallucinogen given guise. She is entheogen and she is madness and she is a fifth of mescal for a drunk and it is to prolong the bender.

She is venom poured into long-stemmed grace; she is the champagne flute given human guise absolutely resolutely without humanity. Her hair is ash wrought in industrial defilement aromatic with rarefied parfumiers' wares and she is femininity without boundary and her face is her own, and it is many others', also. She is mendacity and prevarication in size six stilettos and she is a wickedness wreathed with gauzy enrobing black stockings whose seams are not only intuited but _tasted_ in a slit administered by a samurai couturière racing to the voluptuous hips.

The hair is huge, voluptuous in its coiling convolutions that speak of tamed ringlets. The eyes cold elegantly cut aquamarine washed clean of anything like humanity and compassion in a great warp. The chest heaves, draped with a gown in black that is desecration on skin so perfect it surpasses only _unblemished_.

She is wartless; she is living statuary, a marble woman whose blood is cooler than the skin. Kiss her with unwary lips, and you will become ice, also.

But it is not unwariness. It is with delight, peering up into the eyes while there is still the regular seesaw sway and the singsong whimpers and mewls from the lips the ear-staining perfection in Sophie's voice.

Ah, ah, even this _name_.

Sophie.

Sophie.

"H-hi there, Wormwood-"

"You _know_ I hate it when you call me that, Shirley." The voice soft and sonorous and it feels as worthwhile even to ascribe a pitch and grade and tone to it as to the leaves in their boiling transition through autumn's shades.

It is as malleable as putty in her hands.

"And you kno-hoooow _I_ hate hearin' that."

"Shirley?" Sophie's befuddlement, or maybe incredulity. Or something like it, anyway, with Sophie's hips in their endless rock and sway that pitches and pumps that sumptuous thing with an endless regular vacillation between my thighs. Between the legs that tremble in their weightless strengthlessness.

Perfect balance in vaporous enervation.

"'s nothin'. It's Ayu-Ayum... C- _coming_ so fucking hard. I- hah- ah, ah, lookit us, Wormwood. B-both of us! Both of us!"

"Y-you're..." Sophie's voice as pinched as the eyes, straining closed.

And there is a warmth a _heat_ a wet spattering blaze cresting up up up from that flesh from the fuchsia-stained delirium and it is to anoint her to enamel _me_ with it and there is more more more spraying spurting fountaining crashing up across us.

"W-whoa-"

"So you still can, huh, Ayumi?" And Wormwood, well, hers is a supreme ease, a wilting willowy elegance on her legs, because there is nothing human there. A murderous futuristic robot; hers is not to age and it is not to defy it but only to live _apart_ from such vagaries, such vicissitudes.

Bullets are banality, also.

Fingers long and fine and garnet-lacquered will prickle and jab; it is to taste her body her simple _being_ and the breasts are very large very _luscious_ dwarfed with ours, and that is absolutely meaningless. Soft and plump and gracefully upturned; theirs is a tandem quavering grace and the gown is being shrugged from her shoulders.

Permission is something, oh, _optional_ for a beautiful woman. For the shoulders against the cool tiles for the long slender legs in their convolutions for the knees rearing up for something else entirely. For the hands that are not confident and not timid because all the world is her province. Lips settling into Sophie's hair and it is with eyes transfixed with _mine_ that the transformation the transmutation is first tasted.

"A-ah, w-who the hell _are_ you, anyway?" Sophie's shoulders a twist and strain and cant and it is absolutely meaningless while the gown is shed like a black snake's husk and Wormwood is now pale creamy bare. It is flesh on flesh; it is lips questing beseeching it is Sophie's mouth _swallowed_.

"Mmm... Names are pretty meaningless, aren't they, darling?" Another kiss; another. "But I'm a _very_ important part of the cocktail, you see. Why, you can't even _have_ a martini without me. I'm the sweet or the dry or both."

"'cause you're perfect, Wormwood-"

"Stop calling me that, _Shirley_ -"

"Fine, fine, _fine_ , Chrissy- _tan_." And how can you not tease? How can you not _beseech_? "Mmm... Y'know, I think your tits have gotten bigger, haven't they? You have somebody slap your back 'til they pop out?"

"Is that the technique you used, Ayumi- _chan_?" With the loveliest most _buoyant_ grace; with those tits flattened against Sophie and we are a perfect sandwich, are we not? Chocolate and cream; and the autumnal bliss between us strains and plumps and recedes again and again with every long heaving pump and...

"W-what the hell is that?" With Sophie's eyes humongous; with her body suddenly... Wrenched; warped. Slipped onto her back and this is my question, also.

Wormwood's body simply...

Hers.

As always.

But a large thick _delectation_ has coalesced there.

"What do _you_ think, Ayumi- _chan_? I thought I'd join in. You always carry _another_ interesting little parcel in your bag, so I just took the liberty." Do I now?

Barely even...

Even remember _anything_. But it _is_ very large; creamy, also, paler than her skin, and there is no need for a rubber for _anything_. Bare bare bare and its glint is fueled inflamed with nothing unnatural. It is her body; it is that lust that ambrosial luster spilling down because it is also cranked between the tight lips crested with taut curls that accentuate not what is natural but only that they are as malleable as anything else.

And it is...

It is the surrealest slavery, you know. Because it is no longer Sophie's play-pretend tyranny but something deeper still.

Wormwood is not a fleeting transient bit of conquering fantasy.

She is the authentic article; she is body and flesh and eyes defined _wrought_ around hunger. It is not Scarlett O'Hara; tomorrah is not another day without an adversary vanquished, devoured, _destroyed_. This is her life.

It is Wormwood's lips; it is to know this _ideal_ named Chris, or maybe it's Sharon, or... Or... Or maybe it's only _Vermouth_. But Wormwood is much much _much_ more intoxicating. It is for Sophie to be levered away and urged closer again; it is to be penned between them, Wormwood's chest on mine and Sophie's against my back and it is to know the simple dreamy draping insanity in their flesh _curtaining_ your body. It is Sophie's arms laced around my waist; it is palms _straining_ on my belly, drawn taut with muscle and the endless riotous raucous strength heaving up.

It is blood thundering down every vein up every artery. Or maybe it's up every vein down every artery. It is all relativity.

It is...

It is all insanity.

There are murmurs, soft, sticky; Sophie's lips clasped against a cheek wending along the throat's soft fragile convolutions a bite a nip _sooomeone_ will need a turtleneck tomorrow, young lady. It is Wormwood's fingers _snapping_ at something else.

"We're going to fuck our little Ayumi together, ah... Your name's Sophie?" Wormwood's voice a hot husky little murmur. It is to know absolute _surrender_.

Genuflection on your side.

"Ah, yeah, it is. Who're you, ah-"

"Call me Chris. I'm Ayumi's boss." Damn, damn, _damn_ , dragging up _thaat_ one from the ocean's deep abysmal bowels.

"A-ah, oh-"

"I think you'll be _very_ fun, Sophie. Oh, oh, don't worry. She obeys _me_ ; she'll obey _anything_ I ask." And it's true. Because this is an Order.

It is not even a point of hierarchy; it is not Onward to Our Noble Deaths. I am _not_ a fucking broken piece of jade.

It's only an elemental bliss in this.

In that creamy thick plump _thing_ dragged up, up, up.

"Oh, _Ayumi_ , you're such a naughty girl. I've been looking for you the _whole_ night. And then I see you're here so _early_ in the morning?" Cooing; a soft wet _murmur_ against an ear. "I could kill you for that." Ah, ah, _ah_.

Spattering _spacking_ electricity rips up through every fucking nerve.

"For a lot of the shit you do, Ayumi- _chan_. Shirley Temple-"

"Ngn... But you wouldn't. 'cause I'm just too _exotic_ ; there's only one of _me_. Y'can't replace this, can ya, Wormwood- _tan_?" Cooing and rasping and gasping and it is for breasts to fall together for hers in their very generous _breadth_ to settle against mine. Nipples on nipples; the areolae vast and cool beside the sweat-sodden hot skin.

She is not a woman who cannot sweat; she is a woman who _refuses_ to sweat. It is an abhorrent thing for anyone but Wormwood.

"That's right. And I _hate_ you for it. I'm going to show you something _veeery_ nice, little Ayumi- _chan_."

"P-please-"

"Here. Here. I'm going to break you _apart_. Call it your punishment for not being in school. Students. Go. To. _School_. Even little Shin'ichi bothered to pretend." A rasp and shudder and it's... It's madness.

It's her fingers outstretched suddenly, suddenly, _twisting_ into Sophie's long heavy thick bubblegum hair.

"And _you're_ going to fuck her with me, aren't you, Sophie? Have you ever fucked a girl like this? Because Ayumi is the _hugest_ slut I know-"

"Nuh- _uuuuh_." How can the protest the petulant truculent cooing not flare up, plume like a mushroom cloud from the lips with trilling urgent huge _defiance_? "I'm not a slut... Well, all right, I _am_. But not _that_ way. I just love it; I love it love it love it. I'll fuck anyone beautiful. Okay, okay, I'm a slut. I'm a slut. Happy to be. So so so _so_ happy. Goddess- _chan_ spoke to me, y'know. This is the _way_." Coiling between them; _swallowed_ into their darkness, Sophie's skin and Wormwood's soul.

Black and _hot_ and sticky on the body on the spirit like a staining sweltering still summer midnight.

Writhe with them.

Arch.

Feel the surrogate flesh.

Taste its caress.

"A-ah... Ah... C-Chris- _chan_ , what're you doin'-"

"What do you _think_? You need to be _punished_ , Ayumi." Farewell to even play-pretend honorifics. The voice is cyanide syrup, slithering down into the ears; conveyed through the flesh a sensorial madness trembling thrumming up through my neck.

A sharp sudden _snap_.

It's her body, an urgent violent strain; it's her fingers, biting into a calf, the leg cranked _wrenched_ up with the familiar insurmountable inexhaustible strength. It's a _push_ ; a shove; it's not being eased but only...

Pressed.

Against that skin.

"A-ah, ah, what're you- what're you doing, Chris- _tan_ -"

"Shut up with the _chan_ shit, all right, Ayumi? We don't need it; not here. We have an audience, you know." And it's true.

Wriggle like a stricken seal and there are eyes in their multitudes; they are not familiar faces and this is this _point_. It is not with safety, with security, but only the perfect flayed comfort-denuded awareness of the women in their ranks.

Eyes glint in bare rheumy streaks or with spectacles shimmering in the hot rich relief against the lights; the bodies are bared in their gradations, in soft lush tits eased from dresses or blouses in skirts hiked up in...

In this _madness_.

It swallows.

It inhales.

It's one of the toys in its first _jab_ there; it is Wormwood's but it is really mine it is to fuck yourself to be your own tyrant to abuse yourself without Goddess- _chan_ 's proscribed self-abuse. It is... It is sinking deeper, deeper, _deeper_.

It is not a mere sandwich; and suddenly, suddenly, it is the universe's contortion it is long long legs as a cradle it is Wormwood's in stockings and creamy skin it is bare _onyx_ for Sophie's it is to be planted against Sophie's tits Wormwood craning closer twisted up and hammered down with one of her fingers clasping together _their_ madnesses.

Sophie's eyes can be felt scalding against the nape, into my hair.

"W-what're you doing, Chris- _san_?" Sophie's voice a tremor a quake.

"Ah, ah, _ah_. Call me Chris; don't use honorifics with me. I hate them. I'm showing you something _delicious_. And I'm punishing Ayumi for being a bad girl. She was supposed to go to school today.

"But she cut class. Didn't you, Ayumi?"

There's nothing maternal in this.

Well, _mommy_ had never lavished me with this.

She had never ground together those delicious rubberized bits of carnal fiction; the dildos in their bulk clasped against one another and there is a kiss there are those lips sodden slathered _boiling_ with me with Sophie with Wormwood, also, in her implacable unpretentious hunger.

She is not a fragile wilting suburbanite, a trivial trite morsel of the sainted bourgeois clutching at liberation in the cocaine's sharp diamond lusts with the _disinhibition_. Hers is a perfect animal brutality; hers is something candider than even a dog. She is a wolf, also, or perhaps something dreadful and unplaceable and primeval, a nightmare that you delude yourself _must_ be extinct must be another terrible age's vestige peering at you in skeletal fantasy from a museum exhibit.

It is a fraud; a farce.

It is her kiss her fangs brandished live livid _urgent_ swollen with blood her hand twined around them and it is another clamped on a shoulder, bearing down. Down. _Down_.

A scream.

Take me, take me, sanctify me...

Onward to Planet Oooooooo!

Oh.

Oh.

" _Ahaaaaahhhhh_!" A squall a squeal a screech a scream it is pain, yes, yes, but not its first hot novelty a sharp kiss that sends the flesh recoiling away in rejection not the dull lowing wounded-calf throb that is reconciliation with the insurmountable but something altogether irresistible.

It is the algolagnia's refrain; it is the junk _sinking_ into the vein it is the finger snapped down on the plunger with an oil-sleek elegance it is a warbling wailing madness while you slip further further further along them it is to glance down to _admire_ them to know the lips straining overstuffed overfed plump bloating _twisting_ it is to be wrenched open it is _two_ at once.

It is invasion.

"Y-you're tearing my pussy open!" It is not with woe, with despair; it is not a maudlin protest it is not fear that is alone the man's delusion but only...

Only insanity.

Head simply slumping back with the shoulders and the women's fingers are bolder, more certain.

Touch.

Touch.

Touch.

Their heels sharp rapping irresistible ineluctable easing closer, and closer, and there is a conspiratorial silence and this thrall this _hush_ must not be broken or defiled or even _touched_ ; it is to admire the statuary in its sainted dimensions its marble-perfect geometries.

Do not touch.

Do not desecrate this precious rarefied pearl with your hands' grease.

Breath drawn dragged deep in huge ragged gasps. Their fingers are beautiful; more than beautiful. They enchant and there are thickets that could camouflage a charging rhinoceros and there is only a glabrous perfect exposure and there is every gradation in this.

Fingers slip tug twist; there is the elemental candor in this autoeroticism that is not heresy at all, because it is still _anointed_ with Goddess- _chan_ 's essence. It is Sophie's eyes _heard_ in their hugeness; it is to know their madness wrenched open unblinking with this epiphany.

"B-both've you are in my pussy; both of you!" Sobbing whimpering wailing draped over Wormwood's shoulders and the screams tear themselves now from the chest tar themselves on the ear on every. Fucking. Sense. "Y-you're...

"You're so huge; both've you are so huge. You're driving me crazy. I'm going crazy." Orgasm mantles up between the ears and behind the eyes and smears itself in painterly convolution spattering and white-hot and electrifying over the sight.

Immense bubbling motes and morsels and the strokes in their unassailable elegance converge and diverge, also, because everything is perfection. The bloated thick heads crane apart and join again and it is to know every _swath_. To taste it; to know my body enameled over them and enrobing them and it is here again and again and again.

Coming.

Coming!

Warble and howl.

" _You_ should do it, Ayumi." Wormwood's lips in their geometry are more eloquent than the words that dribble muddled and distant and senseless through the ears. "You should move." Yes, yes.

It is The Order.

To be your own jailer.

To be your own torturer.

For the heels to scrabble at purchase on the cold tile that has become clammy with human warmth and for the thighs to shudder for the strength to rear up because it _must_ be. It is raw and flayed and tormented and it is the death-march survivor heaved into a marathon, but it _must_ be. Life. Life.

Lust and fervor and your _commitment_ your fidelity to Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdom, to her great spiritual erudition. And to the sensation scrawling up up up and down down down and it is in their wicked stillness that this captures its consummation.

So I will rise.

Rise.

With head thrown back; with Wormwood's lips like oiled marshmallow velveteen and sublime settling on the tits that tremble and yield and throb with Sophie's mouth in its slack absentminded maunder over the nape in its dimpling scrawling sensitivities.

Up.

Up.

An affectation of liberation; and tumbling down again.

And rising and falling rising and falling the calves shiver the ankles strain and it is a dazzling carnal athleticism.

It animates the world. Steps clatter and rattle and it is a silent consensus. It is the beauties; it is the blonde and the brunette and the raven-maned divinity the delectation in their soft skin their hungering flesh and it is for woman woman woman alone.

This is not the man's.

It is fingers; long brutal raking talons and fine lilicious adornments and every other exoticism.

It is pulling.

Twisting.

 _L-lick me. C'mon. C'mon._

A deep shivering perfection in the anonymity.

In the senseless concentrated lust. It is more than concentrated; it is a distillation, a purity. It is nothing but lust. Their honeyed sublimities; their bodies; their sweet sweat and the syrupy pussy passion the large lips and the tiny and the curls brushed against my cheek the madness the jostling the shoving the simple _greed_.

 _I want it; step off._

 _F-fuck you-_

 _Gimme your hands._

Fingers dragged up, also, teased and swallowed down dragged into deep hot pools and puddles and they will writhe rock it is one woman and now, now, it is their lips akimbo ground with a sumptuous unpretentious fervor that is the most glorious symmetry a, hah, hah, hah, a _synergy_ in the Sapphic poetry recited without compunction.

Breasts fall together and hips, also, and legs rattle and rap and shadows vanish with the light and it is only flesh, only their bodies. Swallowing my fingers and jabbing theirs between lips and it is their bodies their _lust_.

Craving hunger and heat and it's to be fucked, and fucked, and fucked. Lust drools out puddles heavy and mucilaginous on the tongue and rolls down down down over the chin and jaw and it is to be fed overfed.

It is...

 _Aaaaahn... I- I'm really gonna squirt. Lemme- lemme squirt on..._

A _spray_.

Adorning my left cheek; twisted and it's another huge _gush_ washing over my eyes, coalescing in shimmering thick points in the lashes. Giggling and tittering and there is envy; at once, at once.

 _Wow, she can seriously squirt._

 _Wish I could._

 _How d'ya do that?_

 _Lemme show you. S-step aside_.

Stroke pump lunge heave and it is my tongue it is my cheek it is- it is even my _hair_.

 _Waaaah! Your hair feels like silk on my pussy!_

Stained and smothered with them.

And...

And Sophie's warbles her yelps and coos and screeches and Wormwood's is an unreality. A woman as silent as a man when she wills it. All is will. But the cheeks are carnation and the jaw trembles and _crunches_ down with a violence that could grind glass to mist and there are kisses dappled on a woman's ass, a sumptuous pert plump flare, an overripe peach grace.

Touch and touch and touch.

Fingers strain.

Twisted through them.

Mouths pour with mine; a woman dipping down to savor a kiss that is perhaps ten or fifteen bodies conjoined. She is beautiful, beautiful, an Anglo; western, yes, yes, something nebulous in the lavish huge auburn curls and the giddy drunk eyes in russet and the makeup is lovely and a bit mussed.

 _My husband'll fucking **come** when I tell him about this._

Fall away.

They tumble away like debris littered from a tornado. But I am the cyclone's core; I am become its warp, and they are little more than toys and...

And it is now Sophie who will falter.

And Wormwood is more than insatiable. She is also touched.

"You're- you're _drenched_ with pussy. Look at this." Her fingers and hands and Sophie's is a shuddering palsied fugue state.

 _Wuuuh..._

"What a _naughty_ little slut you are, Ayumi." Not in judgment; only in tribute.

"Mmm... Thank you, Chris." And so there will be the lips; to kiss and kiss and kiss, a wet and sticky communion. Confluence.

Pour into her.

And the flesh is finally freed of this occupation and it is worse than bittersweet. It is _anguish_.

Cradled in her arms and it is now fingers to salve the despair in parting; fine and slim and coiling twisting _ground_ with the most achingly elegant wisdom at that flesh, spongy and inflamed.

Another quick shuddering orgasm is my reward.

Heels rattle and scrabble over tiles.

There is _an ocean_ pooling around us.

Cum and cum and cum.

A woman's cum in its almost gelid heaviness; it is not spittle, and nothing so...

So crude as a man's.

"Who is _this_ beauty, Ayumi?" Chris' voice deeper now; an oiled _rasp_ on an ear. Still clasped in her lap; the fingers still stir, slowly, slowly.

 _Swept_ between thighs splayed open with a self-conscious debauchery.

A need for her.

Little Red Riding Hood simply _pinched_ ; and now, now, not merely _pinched_.

Squeezed.

Tortured.

Another huge tormented scream.

"A-aaah! S-she's... She's just... Just _Sophie_ ; a- a computer specialist-"

"Good. We need one of them." And the kiss will settle on my neck; a vampire's adoration; a _nip_. "I'll take care of her. Just make sure you don't keep drawing attention to yourself. At least, the _wrong_ kind of attention.

"Watching those women fuck you, well..."

"Mmm?" Eyes cast back at her; lashes still twinkle with their honey.

"What is that _perfume_ you're wearing? It just..."

"Oh, that?" Garrulous. Mad. Teasing; the initiate's treachery with a glimpse of a mere novice.

"Yes, _that_. And don't tell me it's just _pussy_ ; it's not that. You don't even _smell_ like sex; that kind of stale scent even the best gets."

"It's just..."

A breath.

Long and lingering.

Oh, oh, _oh_ , what is the answer?

The real one, or the true one, or the earnest one, or?...

"Tell me." With a kiss; with a kiss. "I want it."

"Too bad. It's my scent."

"You're- really?" Is it incredulity? Or only awe that this perfection should be _unique_ to this flesh?

"It's just _fantastic_ , isn't it, Chris?" And it is to rise, to rise. Fingers urging her up, up, up with me. Standing; _levitating_.

The legs have been forgotten. Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. Taste the lips and the tongue and the body's pulsating mad wisdoms rearing up through the flesh.

"God, it is. It's incredible. I know a parfumier who'd probably sell his soul and his entire family's for- for a _scent_ like that."

"Really?"

"In the soul market?" It is a smile, a sharp wicked glint, a taste of the satanic, really, that announces there is very much such a market. "I'm sure it could fetch _quite_ the price. It's just divine."

Oh, yes.

It is.


	7. Inagaddadavida

Ah, ah, _ah_. The junk slithers deeper and deeper and deeper into the cells; theirs is a craving that isn't the addict's metamorphosis, isn't the transformation the transfiguration the cellular metabolic _alchemy_ that warps man and woman into that strange unreal numb sexless thing called the junkie. It is something more elemental than this; it is to taste magic layered upon magic, and one cannot displace another. It is meteorology; it is with generous quotation of Bernoulli; it is to taste the wisdom in these things that have been domesticated with a wild-eyed zeal for certitude in nature and that cannot will _not_ ever be understood in man.

Because man is animal. Man is a flesh machine; man is _soft_ machinery, not rattling gears but mutable bone; not twanging taut coils coruscating with electricity in their predictable marching perfection the one-zero-one-zero-one-zero binary but something absolutely apart from it. It is quantum computing; it is the suggestible and the subjective and it isn't even that the mind conquers the body but will never ultimately admit it _is_ of the body.

Our faiths and our convictions. They are wrought in this. The flesh is perhaps a sumptuous sainted garden or even a cruel mendacious trap. But it is forever the body. Even the trendy atheists tacitly surrender to this one fundamental point. The mind is something unquantifiable. Ah, ah, this sumptuous heady psychobabble, this pious preening academical nonsense.

It is all our collective will not even to be what we are not; it is a joint conspiracy in our figments of accord in language to _believe_ the world is what it is not. It is flesh. This is the truth. Amen. There are no prologues and there are no epilogues.

There is ultimately no life and death. Can you carve it into such absolutes when you know one half the binary? One half. It is something that surpasses the life's and flesh's very boundaries; the mind's cogitation. Taste the elemental psychic _anguish_ with a palm cradling your heart tasting with a fanatical grandiose relish every fucking _mote_ of blood coiling not with your will but only the soft machinery through your heart when that epiphany arrives.

Oh, goddess, I'm going to die.

Ultimately, eventually, you and me, right, right, right? Whatever my feats, whatever my life's _sublimity_ or even its absolute prosaicness, ah, ah, all ultimately becomes _meat_ , doesn't it? Sooner or later. What does it even _matter_ if you're remembered or not, adored and adulated or not, if there is rejoicing at your passage or mourning that splits the earth and shakes the heavens in the throng's great plangent despair 'cause it can't matter!

Wah!

Every word mastered.

Every deed.

Every bit of knowledge; every philosophical epiphany.

Ah.

Ah.

And what will it even matter if there _is_ an afterlife? If it's to bleed into a glorious ancestral communion where the flesh's boundaries melt off or if there're dreamy-eyed stoned-off-their-asses seraphim strumming electric harps in acid-rock symphonics while you trip balls with Jesus and Muhammad and Abraham and, hell, maybe even Shalmaneser V and God or Goddess or the pantheon rock the fuck _out_ to a crazed Electric Kool-Aid-smeared musical frenzy...

What does it matter if it's not _you_?

If what you _are_ is dismantled, teased apart, the spirit and the soul and the mind and your _genius_ , ah, ah, not as a judgment in the IQ's vicissitudes but that most elemental essence, when they're torn out of you and your meat that has been so _precious_ to you is lain into the cold earth or tossed into a ditch or set out to bloat and blacken with rot or you're little more than ash?

What, then?

All is vanity, y'see.

Amen.

There is the strut the swagger the madness the fingers the hands the hips the simple fundamental _humanity_ in all of it, y'understand. It's to _eat_ the night; it is to become the Great Wolves, your head thrown back a huge baying warbling _howl_ pluming from jaws twisted apart, the Fenrir and its great diabolic children, Sköll and Hati, and you will swallow and snap and snarl and all will be little better than meat fine and fork-tender to be torn from the bone and you will you _must_ feast on the blood dribbling down your fangs.

Amen.

So shall it be. Taste the eyes in their hungry drunken flit; know the time that is not time at all. Midnight or one or two or ten or... Or what even _is_ it? It's not sleeping it off; there's nothing to sleep off. It's only to coil and wheel and whirl; it is to be the Jörmungandr this evening, or maybe this morning. It is to know time in its meaningless circuitous whirl.

Today is tomorrow, ultimately.

Today is today within a year.

Twenty.

Fifty.

All human life is predicated on a lie. From the geologic, one man's or woman's life is not even meaningless; from the celestial, the geological is not even meaningless; from the _transcendental_ , the celestial is not even meaningless. All are _less_ than even this, because that's just what it is. Scale and proportion.

Tell that to the one whose hunger is so deep the act of stroking your belly becomes masturbation unto itself. An act of fantasy. I am stroking my belly. I am defying Goddess- _chan_ 's dictates, even in my obedience, my groveling genuflection. It is why the feet are there; it is why there are eyes _hot_ with hunger urgent and raging and implacable.

A kiss. A plea. It is not for the faces, for the voices, for the _anything_. It is hunger; it is a mad manic wheeling reeling thing. It is not with tyranny not with predation but only an equanimity. It is not indiscriminate; it is not with an obsession for these vicissitudes in station and esteem. It is not the jacket's cut not the senseless convolutions of imagery and iconography adorning the wardrobes. It is to jettison these things.

A beautiful young lady. Does it matter? Does it matter what her sigil her crest her class her _anything_ is? It is not a point of belonging; at least, not in belonging to this broader figment of order that is only to invite a deeper and more irresistible more _violent_ more _**urgent**_ entropy. There is almost a plainness in the unequivocal perfection.

There is an ordinariness. An there is a grandiosity in this; it is an elemental defiant _rejection_ of anything everything that is to be dictated appointed anointed.

"You're so beautiful, you know." With fingers laced through her hair. It is to know not the body in its impatient importunity but... But a plodding and _elegant_ ease in all of this. To peer into the eyes in their lacquered anthracite heavily-lobed and profoundly _Japanese_ dimensions; to savor the hair thick and lambent and pin-straight and plunging down down down her shoulders and wreathing her lean body, her fine modest breasts, her taut well-exercised belly; her legs slim but not emaciated and they are very beautiful.

 _She_ is lovely. It is what this culture lauds as ideal in flesh, and renouncing in its figments. The Night's Beauty is she who must not be admitted into our two-dee fantasia; she is simply... Average. An average perfection that is still coveted; still adored.

The complexion not bleached cream not ash but not a sun-dappled sable sublime. She is simply lovely. The nails are lacquered in an achingly elegant symmetry in violet; the lips shimmer with a glint a _kiss_ of indigo.

There is a plea adorning them.

 _Ah, ah, ah, please._

"Of course. Of course." To twist and wheel and simply _plunge_. There are delirious places, gardens wrought in our collective fantastical craving for an urban serenity that is its most elusive bliss. It is a humanity whose will urges it irresistibly toward silence; this is impossible. It is not death's sepulchral quietude in the mere _being_ the relentless susurration the ambient violence in more than thirty almost forty _million_ humans crammed into mere geography.

Whatever the vertiginous scope the oppressive clamoring the lust for walls that can ward away our merciless meaningless yammering the engines in their awful thrumming multitudes the music the conveniences, well, we are still ultimately human. Solitude, isolation, a monastic shelter, this is impossible here. And there is the passion that can only spring into being; there are the fingers and hands and it is a glimpse of eyes an inquisitive glint while it is not exhaustion's enormity but a deeper spiritual gravity that _crushes_ onto the shoulders.

 _Aren't you in my comparative religions class?_

Ah, ah, yes, those sumptuous morsels of prepackaged belonging. Our tribes and clans and associations.

Ah, yes, yes, I am.

 _I'd always recognize you. It's Yoshida- **san** , right?_

And her name?

Ah, ah, it is the shy beauty. It is the divinity in the luscious soft shimmering hair immortally nestled behind the notebook's curtaining gloom in the lecture hall; rarefied miracle in being _attentive_ , rapt, not merely the familiar glazed-over apathy to what is, well, let us be candid.

It is better-living-through-chemistry.

It is dogma.

It is a conviction of absolutes. There is _one_ answer; this is the answer. It is because it is printed in our text and it is in its most elementary guise generous preparation for the public's conception of faith, of religion. But there is an intensity in the eyes; there is a sharp glint and there is a ravening esurient craving for more more more.

A hand upraised and the sullen prof's shoulders imploding into his spleen and there is forever the exasperation.

 _Ah, yes, what is it, Yoshida- **san**? Try to keep it brief._

But you're wrong.

Everything is wrong, y'see.

And this is understood. And what is her name? Shy Beauty? It isn't Yoshida- _san_ ; that's _my_ name, lady. Or, rather, it is my parents' name; it is something hereditary. It is as certain as irresistible in its shackling embrace as the wealth stamped on their accounts.

Ah, ah, ah, Shy Beauty. The elegance in the legs cradled not in gauzy stockings but the familiar thick opaque knee-socks that are nothing but fiction painted in reality; they are very very lovely, long and firm and sleek and it is self-evident that jogging without superhuman stamina is a pastime. Hers is a sinewy leanness that is not Ran's legendary violence.

There will not be stone mashed into powder to be snorted from some mesmeric beauty's vast mountainous tits. The apartment declaims _ordinariness_ ; it is not the soul's sepulcher, but it is banality in supreme efficiency for about fifty thousand yen for little more than two or three tsubo and there is a bath, and this is for her and for all that have tasted this rarefied wisdom a spiritual core. It is an altar, a temple, a refuge from the city's grime and dank and its gloom that rolls in thick bubbling nimbus along its glass-and-steel horizon and it is the vantage from which the consumer voyeurs peer at their sainted fellows in their Mercedes-branded excess.

It is a waystation on the passage to traditional corporate success. Or it is a transient bit of liberty before the Parasitic Single life eases them home to a familiar bedroom with parents whose comfort and luxury are commensurate to the worth they've suctioned out of a mortgaged future.

There is a sofa; it is something that could almost be called miraculous. It is heaped fabric tucked into a ragged ratty frame beside a futon tangled into itself with a likeness of a tousled bucatini, fastened with a heavy indigo band. There is an ambition to homogeneity; a studied aesthetic cohesion in this place perfumed with mango and passion fruit and a cruel pretension an _ambition_ in our fanciful chemistries of the tropical authentic.

It is violet; it is indigo; it is amethyst; it is every gradation and twist and convolution in these sainted hues and she is self-evidently not merely lililicious but a lilac girl, also, the trembling lips shimmering with gloss in its soft and dainty hues and there is a breath a hot heaving _gasp_ pluming from the pert plump chest.

"A-ah... Ah... Yoshida- _san_ -"

"Ayumi. Call me _Ayumi_ , 'kay?" There is only incredulity. She is, ah, what, exactly? A second-year? Third-year? There is not yet that sharply set absolute that could be called _adult_ ; but it is nearer, nearer. It is a bell-curve beauty who has still profited from being one of Darwin's winners.

Perhaps not the fullest victory, but a generous sharp raking stroke against genetic mediocrity.

The glasses capture and scatter the city's soft light in its invasion through the windows, the curtains drawn but for the tiny kitchenette's eased open to admit the dying night's soft satiny breaths wafting through and tousling the gauzy grease-spattered lace.

She is beautiful; she is beautiful cradled in any light.

"Feels so weird. You're... I'm always looking at you in class, y'know, Ayumi- _san_ -"

"A-yu- _mi_. No _san_ stuff, all right, ah..." There is a blink. "I'm sorry." It is not contrition. "I don't really know your name. You're just the pretty sorta-kinda shy girl-"

"It's Kyoko." Ah. There is no woe; the brows are fine and immaculate in their obsidian arches over the black eyes; the cheeks are stained in burgundy. "I-"

"Mmm. Don't be upset about it. I just never _learned_ your name; you're so quiet in class." And there is a kiss. Another. Another.

It is... It is something sainted. Not a virginal kiss; not the slut's, either. It is slow and almost sugared in its mawkish elegances. The lips soft and pert and eased together while bodies wilt with a floral grace. Yes.

Yes.

We will consummate the clichés in Sapphic poetry. We are flowers and blossoms and beautiful delicate crops in fullest bloom. We are flourishing, _opening_ ; buds become vibrant and alive and _rich_ with dewy sap and sticky opium hungers and there are now fingers easing together.

Women's kiss is something... Something that defies any parallel, any challenge, any compare. It is slow and untroubled and unhurried and it is not with the flesh's urgent clamor not with the roaring heaving _howling_ exhortations in weary or at least strained blood puddling with the body's exotic muscular alchemies in a bit of meat yammering and pulsating and the universe does not become a warp narrowing cinching down down down to that hunger between the thighs.

It is to know the world steeping through the body. It is the purest sublimest junk; it is opium heroin morphine laudanum perfection; it is not paregoric parody. It is to know _her_ ; it is to feel the tongues' first slow honeyed caress.

"W-wow. Wow." Glazed; delirious. There is the parting and it is not in woe and despair and not simply _levered_ apart with a celestial strain but it is without urgency. There is absolutely no time whatsoever in this place.

It is not stained in liquor's heady pummeling violences. It is Kyoko.

"You're so _delicious_ , Kyoko- _chan_. Or, ah-"

"J-just call me _Kyoko_. Please. It's, um, it's written with apricot and child." Isn't this our imperishable compulsion?

To reduce ourselves to the abstract.

We are ideas.

We are ideals.

Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Her fingers twist, tangle.

"I- I've never really done this before, y'know, Ayumi?" There is a plea to be believed. She would protest this if the nostrils were still caressed with lust's elusive spirits, fleeting fitful morsels of little deaths consecrated in this place.

Because it is what is believed that is more precious than what _is_.

Consensus, you know.

"No? I _love_ this; walking home with some strange beautiful woman." It is to admire the enormous eyes flaring open more, and more, and more.

"A-ah, oh-"

"What? Terrified that you've just dragged home some depraved slut? 'cause that's what I am. Ah, ah, _flesh_ is my fanaticism, my obsession, y'know."

"You're just like you are at school. You scare people. With how passionate you are; with how _uninhibited_ you are. People think you're crazy."

"Good. I am crazy." And she must be kissed. Again and again and again and it is to _know_ her. Biblically, of course. The mouths twisting together and fingers grope and clutch. It is to loose one's fingers; to slip up up up over the satiny cheeks not in airbrushed perfection not Wormwood's immaculate grace but something...

Something _natural_.

Human.

It is not the actress, forever strutting upon her life's stage. It is one for whom there's little hope of being anything but an extra in her own life. And she is very lovely; very enchanting. It is a walk-on and there will perhaps be one or two bits of murmured dialogue.

"You're- you're so different, Ayumi." Drag her closer, and closer. Admire the knees clasped together.

"You think so? From myself-"

"From everyone else." Lips pursing now; they are plumper, more sumptuous. "I've never met anyone like you."

"Well, then you're just oblivious. There're _many_ people like me; most of them are just too ashamed to admit it-"

"So they're nothing like you."

" _Touché_." It's true, isn't it?

"You're shameless, y'know, Ayumi?" And it is to drag her against my breast; it is for her to know to taste to _gorge_ herself on the sweat's crisp elegances the...

The _cleanness_.

The Shinto perfection; the purity the purification in blood and wind and rain and fire. Tongue flitting over lips with puppyish zeal.

"I guess it's true, ain't it?"

"Oh, yes. And- and I've never brought home anyone like this."

"But you, ah, _are_ a Lizzie, right?"

"I don't know what that means. I- I don't... I don't, um, is that English?" Our sainted tongue that is never spoken nor understood in anything but heresy.

"Nah. 's just... You _are_ delectably lililicious, aren't'cha?"

"I want... I don't know what you mean-"

"You _do_ love girls, right?"

"I- I dunno, really." It's furrowing brows. "I think I like _you_ a lot. You're so beautiful-"

"And these titties, right?" Cradle them; her hands have become mine. A surrogate agency; the vicarious twists with the intimate and it is now her palms to _clasp_ on the flesh. Her gasp with the heavy deep guttural groan splitting the stagnant air with a thunderclap's frenzy.

"W-whoa-"

"Yours are so cute, y'know? You're just... You're so _different_."

"You mean I'm _plain_ -"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. Oh, let me _guess_. Your ex-boyfriend said y'were plain, right?" An awareness not in omniscience but only with a detective's eye for the vicissitudes; for the booze bottles roosting in their cold desolation littering the table.

"W-wha-"

"Well, 's true, right?"

"He said I was _boring_. Not that I was plain. How- howdja know I had a boyfriend?"

"'cause you never wear makeup; and now you are tonight. And you're not _usually_ drunk off your ass; there're three empty sake bottles there on the table. And there're still the dregs y'just _can't_ ever really pour out; they haven't shriveled into nothing."

"You sound- sound like that dorky jerkoff teen detective, Shin... Something-" Groping at a point of sublime mutual opprobrium in the childish preening, the idiot self-satisfaction. It is delectable.

"Shin'ichi." It is magic, you understand; the fingers' nimble flourish and, _ah_ , it's a coin plucked with ease and aplomb from behind your ear. But it is the coin you lost in the fourth grade.

"Yeah!" Victory! Bliss in the huge dreamy eyes. "That's his name. That- that Kudo guy." It's a sense of incredulity. The befuddlement that _this_ could be. "I- I hate that guy; he's such a smug _asshole_. He's- he's always solving these crimes that just...

"Who talks to a fuckin' kid about that kind of crap, anyway? I know our justice system's bad. That's just _fucked up_ , okay?"

"Yes. Yes, it is. I know Shin'ichi."

"Whoa- really?"

"Slept with him more than once." It isn't even to anoint yourself with celebrity's greasy enameling disease; it's only matter-of-fact.

"Weird. Is he any good? I- I still feel kind of... Not even wasted. Just _sad_." With lips trembling. "I brought you here, and now I'm just getting weepy about my boyfriend. He- he's some kind of detective _freak_ , too."

"No; not really. He's just average. A bit of a secret, though?" A whisper; conspiratorial. "He's never solved _one_ crime; others do for him. He just doesn't understand that everything's _orchestrated_ for his convenience."

Giggling now.

"S-seriously-"

"Seriously."

"Cross your heart?"

"Kill him myself." Arch and with chest heaving and the laughter's humongous and... And now, now, there's a deft darting grace not karate balletics but only a mere human's. The legs are sinuous in their twist and wheel and there is music.

Music.

Slow and heavy and _conjured_ into being with a finger's brush against a stereo and there is only incredulity while the sonic sensuality _flowers_ flourishes melts through the ears fills the efficiency from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall and it is almost leaden in its percussion.

Sawing tribal rhythmic trembling.

The voice is French.

"Do you speak French?" The words sticky and wet on my lips, because there is an intimacy in this. Drawn closer, and closer, and closer, and it is to know the hips' slow languid sway. It is not a professional dancer's ease; it enchants.

Patiently, _ploddingly_ , they are stirred in the music's languorous current.

It is a nightmare in melody.

It is a tale of death and madness and drink.

It is delirium; it is perfection. Slip a hand into hers and there is not the archetype; not the orderly and fantastical and the _structured_. It is the hips' achingly graceful twist; it is to know her legs and it is something vacillating in its tyranny.

Her eyes flit and flicker in their darkness curtained in drowsy lids that plunge down, down, down; in the lashes that beat at fine fawn-hued cheeks and mine, also.

"You're such- such an _amazing_ dancer, Ayumi."

"Y'think so-"

"You have _hips_!" Ah, yes, yes, this is true.

"So do you-"

"I have- I have a space where hips are _s'posed_ to be. Lookit them; they're so small. And you have the _biggest_ butt; the most incredible boobs. Your legs are so long; your hair's so _thick_ -"

"Genes. And ink."

"Uh-"

"My hair's auburn. Naturally. I just love _black_ -"

"But it's so _huge_."

"That's just what it is." Undulate; rock; writhe. To slip and _pour_ together; dip and twist and sway and there is an awareness of her height.

Or that she is, of course, profoundly _ordinary_ in this.

Crane down to daub the lips with a fleeting little _whisper_.

"An' you're so tall-"

"And you're just so _pretty_ , you know, Kyoko. Don't be such a _neurotic_ ; you're gorgeous. I could fall deeply and passionately in lust with a girl like you. Why! I think I am. You brought me home, after all.

"I'm not a sure thing; I just _love_ it." The smile quirking with a sharp vulpine hunger.

"Y'mean, you could say _no_?" While the voice teases; while there is a heavy husky elegance slithering through the ears.

"Oh, I'm sure I _could_."

"Would you?"

"Uh- _uh_. You're just... Just so _beautiful_. Maybe I'd take advantage of _you_ in your apartment-"

"It's one of my fantasies, you know. I... I've never slept with a girl before." It is courage. Conviction. This meaningless ideal named _chastity_.

The shame and the validation.

"Not _once_? Not mommy? Not big sis? Little sis-"

"Ngn... I- I've never even _kissed_ my sister-"

"Oh, but you'd love it."

"Duh. She's so pretty. She... She was _always_ with me; an' then she just _left_. Left home 'cause my parents are _shit_. It's why _I_ left home, too." No parasite singling, then? A pout; a woe in the eyes. "I miss her, y'know. Her name's Mariya."

"How cute. Christian?"

"We are. We're Christian; yeah. Kind of. I think we went to a cathedral once or twice for... Something? W-what about you?" Cooing and lovely and... And there is a need to _drink_ the lips; to slip fingers with a patient syrupy grace under the chin and to perk up her eyes to mine.

Swallow her.

"I'm not really _aaanything_ , I think, Kyoko. Pagan. Oh, oh, _yes_. I've tasted Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdom-"

"Whose?"

"Goddess- _chan_. It's... It's a gospel against the two-dee; it's a _conscious_ spiritual rejection of all of our self-abnegating perversions. It's a faith that... Would y'like to see?"

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." Exuberance.

Ah! What an _evangelist_ I must be.

A natural one.

"Then _yooooou_ need to sit down." Palms _slapped_ at her chest with theatrical pageantry; there is a wheeling twisting drunken stagger and shuffle and the sofa's such an obliging plinth for her. A shudder and quake and her clothing is something that commands adoration in its fundamental ordinariness. It could be anyone; the creamy blouse and the satiny black skirt and the socks reaching up in their opaque taut fabric to the lush shapely thighs.

They are lovely, aren't they?

"I- I don't-"

"Yes, you do. You should understand _vee-eeeery_ well what it is this faith preaches and promulgates. Why, it should be so _obvious_ now, right?" Because it is bestial.

Slipping to your palms, your knees.

"Because I am Fenrir. And my children are Sköll and Hati-"

"Wha?" There's incredulity.

"Shh! Don't interrupt the vargr while she's pontificating."

"'kay." Quietude; exuberance.

"It's the stalk. It is predation, you understand. It is to... To piss on the carpet-"

"Hey, hey, _hey_! This's a rental; and they're tatami-"

"Quiet, you." A _snap_. Lunging up up up and it is paws not delicate and velveteen in their fur but bristling with ragged talons _raked_ at a succulent thigh; a coo and quaver is the answer.

"W-wah-"

"Exactly. It's to piss on the carpet; it's to _rut_ in the street. It's to cradle to your breast every housewife's manual, the Domostroi, the bullshit that man has wrought, and it's to just... Just shred them. Every page. Every one. Tear it into confetti and litter the street with all of the figments.

"All of the _dogma_. Cast it away. And then squat over it and strain and feel the shit just _sluice_ down and then, then, when you're finished, it's to do _this_." To cradle a fine long slender leg in fingers laced together, intertwined. It's to serenade yourself with a coo, a shiver.

Lips _brushed_ on an ankle.

"A-ah-"

"Don't read _Le Ménagier de Paris_ or the _Izmaragd_ with anything but ridicule in your heart. Know that a woman's place is in adulating Lilith, and not Hawa, who is named Eve. Don't bother with the corn they call maize-"

"A-ahn..." An _ahn_. An authentic fucking _ahn_.

Hot and shivering and pluming up on the breath flowering from her breast's pert lush grace.

A kiss; higher and higher and higher and, well, when there is no longer any fabric to be kissed, isn't it to be her thigh's lovely soft allure, then?

Breath.

Quavering flesh.

"A-ah-"

And there is woe; because it is falling down, down, down, and fingers have laced into the sock's seam, and the fabric vanishes along the leg and there is perfection there, also, in imperfection. There is fat's faintest kiss; there is muscle in its generously exercised leanness.

"A-ah-"

"This is the wisdom, y'know. You shouldn't be so _impatient_. It's about lust. What do you want?" Peering up, up, up, eyes wandering through a garden of sexual lassitudes; finally, finally, they transfix her with the lepidopterist's needle for a sumptuous Monarch through the heavy India ink lashes.

There is a perfume.

Hers.

Mine.

It is not sex's accumulated _must_ be something purified. Yes, yes, divine.

"I- I dunno-"

"But you _like_ girls, right?"

"I like _you_." It's almost helpless, isn't it? This denial.

"Uh-uh- _uh_. You _love_ girls. Don't you? Their soft breasts; their long long legs; their round hips; their pretty faces-"

"The pretty girls always bullied me in high school."

"Cunts. Right?" A _slap_ at a firm thigh and there's still the flesh's lovely tremor and her adorable _squeak_ rearing up from faintly rubbery lips.

"A-ah-"

"Don't be so _timid_. The bitches that bullied you, they were cunts, right? Assholes; fuckheads. All of 'em. Right?"

"I- I guess so-"

"Maybe they were jealous. 'cause you're at the _farthest_ reach of the bell-curve, y'know? You're beautiful; you could be a model." With bare soles upheld on a palm as a plinth.

"W-ah-"

"Well, _yeah_. Obviously. This beautiful body; this pretty face. Mmm... Your glasses. I have quite the glasses fetish, y'know? I love them. I wish _I_ wore them; I've thought about doing the hipster thing and just _getting_ them.

"Who cares, right? If they're real lenses?" With a shimmering _intensity_ behind them; with the light flitting over the twinkling puddles like a stone skittering along a pond.

And there is a kneading _convulsion_ between those thighs.

Craning down, down.

A kiss _brushed_ along toes that could only be called _fine_. Because they are; because they are flawless in their pedicured grace; because the nails glint lililiciously in lilac. Because there must be another kiss, and another, and another, and because girls serenade with such a _sumptuous_ little coo when toes are dappled with the lips' plump dampness.

"A-ah... Ah... Ngn..." When there is a wriggle that is not an ambition to flight but a _grinding_ madness in the furtive whisper of legs against legs.

When another is offered without compunction; when the socks are dragged down down down and there is sweat's fine crisp _clean_ fragrance, a spring aroma.

When there is now not merely a kiss but lips _coiling_ serpentine hungry around them.

"A-ah... Ah!" The voice is madness now; the eyes _devour_ , leering through the glasses without compunction, without unease. Because the lips are not content with any simple prosaic dappling damp caress.

Because they must swallow, tug her toes deeper, deeper, deeper.

"Wa-ah... Ahn... It- that feels so _weird_ -"

"No one's ever kissed your beautiful feet before? They _are_ very pretty." And they are; slim and fine and very very _very_ dainty. "You had a pedicure-"

"I- I do once every week. I- I always used to with my big sis."

"Pricey-"

"I know-know a- a beauty student. She- she's my friend-"

"Does she get off touching them, too?" To tease and torment. To _brush_ a tongue slowly slowly a painterly elegance along these fine furrows those groves of fragrance and allure and there's giggling shivering quailing.

"W-aha, ah, that- 's so fuckin' weird-"

"Don't like it?" With mischievous eyes; with mouth falling open to drag them deeper, deeper, deeper. Charybdis' hunger.

"'s- 's so good; I- I feel like I'm going crazy. It's... She's pretty; _I_ get wet when she's working on my feet. She- she tells me they're pretty-"

"Well, it's true. But she's probably a Lizzie, y'know? Honestly, who _isn't_ , right?" Kiss, kiss, kiss, up along the soles. Nip at the ankle and rear up to the calf and, well, how can you resist the clamoring that flowers through the breast?

Eat, and eat, and eat.

"W-wah... It's..." It _is_ lips trembling and eyes straining closed; it is her sumptuous lililicious archetypal Yamato Nadeshiko grace. It is denial in selfishness; it is to curtain your table with an appropriately modest lace haze while there is ravening madness in silhouette.

"Tell me what you want, virgin- _chan_ -"

"Don't call me that-"

"Oh, but you _are_! That's exactly whatcha are. And it's _lovely_. It's, ah, it's not quite my _fetish_ ; not now, anyway. Virgins. It's so _cute_. You're not a _real_ virgin; just untouched by a woman's hands. Like this." And they are a woman's hands.

Quick. Nimble.

Confident.

Swept along a curvaceous thigh and the answer is madness.

Bearing down.

Trembling.

"Aha... Ah- ah- ah, oh, oh, oh, oh, it- it feels..." It is a finger; only a single finger, and there is already _madness_. "It feels-"

"'xactly." Murmuring; the voice is muffled in a fabric mist, rearing up and just _vanishing_ into the skirt. And there is a kiss; a kiss that is the essence of the goddess' fingers _brushed_ over your universe's very center.

The world implodes; crumples down down down.

"Waaaah... Ahn..." Because there is another; another. It is not bare flesh but tight crisp fabric and there is already an awareness a luscious intimate wisdom of the skin through the black cotton.

They are not grandiosely embroidered; it is not with expectation of another's touch.

The loveliest.

"A-Ayumi-"

"Call me Ayu, huh?"

"Ayu... Ayu..." Lowing hot shuddering convulsive and... And it is her legs dragged _up_ over shoulders.

It is a kiss.

And another. And another; and another; and another another another another another feathering over that warmth heavy and weeping delectation in honeyed threads that bleed into the dampness gathering with the lips with the simple _heat_ there.

Serenaded with the cries wringing themselves from her throat.

"Ah... Ah... O-oh, oh-"

"Do you know what's _preciousest_ with the Gospel, Kyoko?" The skirt is...

Is not _hiked_.

It's a merry jaunt along a hillock.

Slowly, slowly, pressed up up up along her hips and, yes, they are... They are very _Japanese_ hips; they are not the round lavish abundance in fleshly effusion but fine and adorned with adorable dimples that command the fingers' prodding wheeling caresses.

And there is the kiss.

Fingers lace through her skirt's hem.

"A-ah... Ahn... I- what-"

"It's _this_. Do what you want; what pleases you. Trip balls. Rape boyz. Fuck girls-"

"I- I'm _definitely_ a girl." It's more than expectant. It's madness; not only staring but _gawping_ down now with dreamy drowsy lust-drunk eyes and _she_ is now not fucked up on sake and regret and despair but only clamoring and craving.

"Oh, _yes_ , you are-"

"I- I..." It is still, still, still, that gunshy _terror_ at this instant.

This, ah, _seminal_ moment.

"Tell me about your fantasies-"

"I want a pretty girl to _fuck_ me." Ah.

Well.

"It's- it's just... Ngn... I- I mean, what- what else can I say? I just... I fantasize about you, Ayu. Is- is it that... I mean, how weird is it, exactly?" Trembling; quaking.

Neurotic; terrified.

It is to confront the wolf in the forest's thick heavy darkness and to wilt before its hungry jaws and to whisper, shiver, quake, to brandish your huge doe's eyes and to announce: Eat me.

Please.

I've imagined this moment.

So many times.

The dripping wet heat.

The hunger.

The claws.

The paws.

The _lust_.

"That's it? That's _all_?" How can you not tease with a slow slaloming murmur? "That's _it_? Really? Fantasize about me? Mmm... Would those be girly little strokes between your legs-"

"I- I just- I imagine it being... Being all wet an'... An' hot- an'- an' I read porno manga-"

"Lililicious soft stuff, right?"

"Uh-uh." Oh, _my_. It's with enormous eyes and a furrowing sharp tension. "Uh-uh. It's... It's super-hard stuff; it's crazy stuff. He- he said I was sick when he read it-"

"What a _fuck_. Snuff-"

"N-not like that. I just... I dream about a woman coming in and fucking me. Raping me. Just... Just bringing her back for tea and suddenly... She just won't take _no_ for an answer anymore. I don't want that right now.

"'s what I touch myself to, though." Rising; rearing up; the skirt's hook is a supreme convenience. There is only taut bare skin; only that lovely succulent hot skin layered in taut black-enameled relief in the mound's thick flourish self-evidently exposed with the lips in their tight puckered grace.

There is heat boiling up through her.

"Really? Being raped?"

"It's- yeah. It's screaming and knowing that... That nobody cares." With humongous quivering eyes. "I love it that way. Knowing I'm all alone and... And she's rough with me. There's- there's this one manga I imagine myself in.

"An older lady- a beautiful older lady. She's- she's all matronly and maybe she's the building manager or _something_. But I'm behind on my rent and- aaah!" A shiver a _shock_ electricity-spattering cables wound through her. "W-what're you-"

"Helping you with your fantasy. _Le duh_." Nails prod those soft lush lips through the panties. "I wanna hear. I wanna hear. I wanna hear. I wanna hear. While we're here, you know. While we're still young-"

"It's embarrassing." With a shudder and a quaver and there is _heat_ staining her cheeks.

"Duh. Would you like to hear abouta fantasy _I_ had with a zebra-"

"W-what?"

"Zebraman. Sort of a centaur-"

"Weird."

"Sexy. His cock could reach _through_ my cervix-"

"W-whoa. It's..."

"Your boyfriend sounds like a loser. Pardon. _Ex-boyfriend_. I'm not your girlfriend; don't have any misfortunate ideas. Just telling you _now_ -"

"I don't want a girlfriend." Rewarded with teeth's sharp _nip_ like a fox's playful fanged snap at lavish thighs.

"But I _will_ fuck you whenever you'd like; an' I know a _lot_ of girls eager to experiment."

"W-whoa-"

"There's... So many. Mmm... But, ah, you should really tell me."

"He told me I was a freak-"

"He's a twit. A twerp. A dingus-"

"She just... I make tea for her." And there is not languorous repose not a delicate wilting recline but toes curling trembling her legs _flung_ over shoulders and it is... It is not to trace the fantasy's narrative geometries but only to _urge_ her closer, closer, closer.

A hot breath on the thighs like a finger brushed on the nape of the neck.

"Ahn... An'... An' then, it's just... She's so pretty; she has long black hair and she- she has the softest _whitest_ skin. She looks like a ghost; like the Snow Woman. And she has big breasts and long legs and- and...

"And she's dressed like my mom. My- my mom's an accountant at some big finance company. She's so pretty. She sleeps around; so does my dad. And... And she's wearing a skirt that's cut really _sharply_ around her legs.

"My mom has the prettiest lee-eeegs." Coiling up, up, up. A tongue _brushed_ over a thigh.

"Nicer than mine?"

"N-no. She- don't take it the wrong way, but you don't really look _human_. Y-y'look like a manga character; y'look like a goddess; like someone who walked out of an AV set. You don't look like you should be with mortals.

"It's kinda weird and... And queasy and sorta off-putting. You're so pretty; you're _too_ pretty. It makes me feel strange. It's like being close to a photosensitive seizure." How _clinical_ we are. "You're too tall; your boobs are too big; your ass is too nice; your legs are too long; your face is too pretty. You're just...

"You're the kinda girl- I, I mean, not..."

"Tell me."

"People are scared of you." A hot _rasp_ of voice from her chest, from her throat. "You're scary; you're strange. People are too nervous to talk to you."

"I noticed. It's not really fair-"

"You look like you make a habit out of saying _no_."

"I don't. Not really." Wolfish; a brilliant fanged grin. "Just when it appeals to me."

"She... She has pretty legs. T-the girl in my fantasy. Woman. She's wearing stockings; I _think_ they're just- just pantyhose, but they're real stockings. And a pencil skirt and nice designer heels and... And I ask her to keep them on.

"'cause it's my fantasy. She's so nice. And- and a jacket and... And a tight blouse. She looks strange; she looks a little crazy. But she's so nice. She doesn't put anything in my tea or anything like that. Just... She puts her hand on my knee... Ahn!" And _now_ it is to embellish the fantasy.

It is for fingers to _cradle_ those fine geometries.

For her eyes to goggle and gawp.

"And- and then... Then I say, No, stop doing that. I have a boyfriend. And she says... She just- she's not violent or anything. She just says, Okay. And then puts her hand on my thigh. And then..." It is to touch her.

Adore her.

Prickle and prod.

Palm _clamped_ on her luscious soft skin.

A tremor dragged up like gelatin wrenched from a well with rusting tackle.

"And I can't do anything. S-she starts touching me, and- and I want to scream. And I _do_ start screaming. She doesn't shut me up. The walls are- are paper-thin, an' nobody calls the police or anything. I keep begging her to stop.

"Stop. She puts her hand on my- on... Between my legs-"

"On your pussy-"

"She calls it my _cunt_." Rough and hot; voice thicker and ragged now. "She puts her hand on my cunt and says, You're wet. You're a nasty slut and you're already wet, so I'm just gonna fuck you now." Sublime.

Tremors rear up and slip down; again and again, this irresistible pattern. It is a cadence wrought in the heart's pummeling beat; it is _tasted_ in the veins' produce their palpitation. It is known in the arteries the nerves not merely flayed but something deeper more ferocious still. It is every mote and morsel bared it is _exposed_ in its sensual perfections and it is to know that your own fingers have become the serrated talons to _priiiise_ away every whisper of that shelter.

There is only this ideal this fearful delicious point of _horror_ named vulnerability; it is coveted and dreaded, also.

To be _you_.

To be.

"Really?" A kiss, a kiss, a kiss. It is now without anything like compunction, the mouth sticky wet soft grazed along a knee.

"A-ahn... Y-yeah, and- you really-"

"I _hope_ this isn't a question, Kyoko." A nip; and another; and another. Creeping up and up and announcing its passage in ruby-clasped geometries. "I _hope_ it's only announcing to me that what I want is to hear _eeevery_ bit of your fantasy.

"'cause that _is_ what I want. 's about Goddess- _chan_ 's dogma. Her doctrine. Her perfected wisdom. Her numinous knowledge. Geddit?"

"G-gottit-"

"Goddit, daddy-o." Murmuring now; it is to convey every thought every _micron_ of this sainted fractious fissuring endlessly ricocheting diffracting distending constellation not in the voice but in the tremors coiling slithering up up up through the thigh's lavish soft flesh. The delirium sleeker than oil kneaded assiduously through butter's fine slathering skein; it is to know the spittle brushed over her; it is for the fingers to rise, rise, rise without urgency unhurried in their adoring elegance to the fine black fabric stripe that has already begun to darken sticky and thick and shimmering beyond black.

"Ah... And..."

"Tell me about this _naughty_ cunt." A _slap_ ; a quick sharp swat on that luscious soft skin curtained in fabric that's become less than perfunctory. It's only an adornment, as modest as a string bikini garlanding heavy luscious tits. "Tell me about what _she's_ doing to it-"

"Ahn..." Shivering; quaking. The head is not thrown back but iron-firm in the eyes' spearing hot stare down down down; transfixed with the communion of flesh and flesh and _she_ is there, also. A malign sumptuous spirit wrought in hallucinatory delirium's animating passions and there are the strange gossamer fingers unfurling spidering out in their multitudes from mine. Twisting; plucking.

And there is the first slow _graze_ ; fingertips cohere into a lace. The first achingly delicate and graceful _prod_.

A whisper over the flesh clutched together now in a straining affectation of this delirium this _idiocy_ called innocence.

It is not.

Innocence is not innocence; innocence is a sainted ignorance.

It is not desire without knowledge now. It is a lust that rears up heaving and huge and almost spasmodic; it is the essence of curling toes dragging urgent sharp _rasps_ from the bare tatami; it is her legs trembling and convulsing and it is eyes gawping with a novelty in this. In the candor without judgment; in the adoration without revulsion.

"She... She just- she's not even _cruel_ ; I think that's... That's the worst an' best part, you know?" Cooing and gurgling and breathless. The chest heaves in its blouse's cradling cool crispness, darkening now with patchwork motes of sweat baring with sincere lust the bits of flesh that are not shackled to this unblemished childish ideal.

"She says, I'm gonna fuck you now. And that's what she- she does." A gasp; the chest _heaves_.

"How, though?"

"She... It's so weird. I only ever _think_ about it; it's unreal when I just _think it_." But this is our delirium, isn't it?

The deed, the thought, they're meaningless things; dead history or private delirium but the instant it's validated in _language_ , it springs into being. She is here now.

"Mmm... Lemme guess, Kyoko. She's not _gentle_."

"Uh- _uh_." Head shaken oh so slowly. "It's just... 's all kinda weird. I'm still so _wasted_." But she isn't, is she? But we must lie. The knees tremble like ancient battlements rattling with modern shellfire. "I'm so fuckin' wasted; I feel _so_ weird-"

"What does she do?"

"She kinda... She pushes her hand up. And up. Up my skirt." Ah, ah, how _woeful_. "But then 's just gone; like you did. Just flips it off me. And she's- she won't stop talking. I'm begging her to stop-"

"How? Tell me. C'mon. I know I'm not the wraith haunting your dreams-"

"You're even prettier." It's true; it isn't at fucking _all_. Oh, no, no, no. "You're even prettier than she is. Y-y've even got that... That _subjective_ thing."

"Oh?"

"You don't feel _real_ , I guess. It's so weird; you're not really real, and _she's_ not really real."

"Oh, but I am. I am no creature of stardust-"

"I know. It's even we-weeeirder!" Cooing quailing because there is not impatience but only a will to impersonation. It is a feast with the dead that we will call The Departed, because we must circumlocute. Fingernails dragged up up up along thighs taut and sleek and lean and there is a sudden violent spasm.

A jaw-grinding hysteria.

"A-ah, ah, ah, d-dammit, Ayu-"

"What's her name? In your dream?"

"L-landlady- _san_." Hah. "It's just- she's just perfect, y'know? The..."

"The luscious older lady that you _crave_. But, oh, oh, you'd _never_ dare-"

"S-stop it. Teasing me." Without bashfulness; without shame.

"Uh- _huuuuh_ -"

"Yes. Yes."

"Mommy and auntie and-"

"You're _mean_." Cooing with a plea for more, more, more. "Oh, you're so fucking _mean_ -"

"But it's true, right?" Cradling a sole with a sense of inquisition, adoration, staining the eyes; her cheeks flare carnation.

"Ngn... C'mon-"

"Isn't it?" A nip; a nibble; teeth like fangs _prick_ into soft slender toes.

"J-just a bit. A-auntie more than mommy-"

"An' big sis, of course-"

"Ev-eeevil!" Oh, oh, _oh_. Ah, ah, ah, this delirious cooing madness. "'s- 's not fair for you ta say that-"

"What does she do?"

"She _rapes_ me." This word; this wicked odious word; this sainted word; this word that is industrial humanity's cruelest defilement.

Death?

A triviality. You are replaceable; you are not even a cog not even a tooth in a cog but an _atom_ in that cog. You would be unnoticed; you are unworthy even of a glint of attention. Death is a banality, because you cannot dread your own death.

You are here; you are not.

There is a binary felt only in halves.

But, to rape?

To inflict that wickedness upon another? To _flay_ them of those most fundamental boundaries, the body's agency, the flesh's autonomy, this is an inhumanity deeper than any other. And it is still craved; not even in power's abdication but a simple fetish.

To know the palm on the thigh.

"How-"

"She just... I hear her; I don't even believe her. But she says, I'm gonna fuck you. I'm gonna fuck your nasty wet cunt." The words dragged from those deep deep deep abysmal places. The chest is a conduit a _warp_ to a dark demented negative world a universe where the shadows distend from the sun and the light is an elusive figment a fabrication wrought in its eddying void.

"And... And I dunno what to do. I just- I've been screaming and screaming and screaming before I even- even feel her hand _there_."

"Where is _there_?" Manic and fanged and with hands creeping up, and up, and up. And it is now to be seated with her because this must be. Because this is the command this is the universe that is being fashioned from another Kyoko's tears.

From dread and despair and surrender.

"Ahn... Y-y'really wanna do this?" The eyes beseech.

"And what is _this_ -"

"Do you wanna rape me?" It's not with a soft satiny frivolity; there is a twanging raw frayed manic _violence_ in it. In the lips drawn into a tight pursed seam and the words barely struggling out a ragged weedy fugitive whisper.

"Now _that_ is quite the idea-"

"I- I really... He'd never do it, y'know?"

"Your loser ex-?"

"Uh-huh." While there is a kiss; while the lips slip together now with a sticky wet grace; while there is gloss upon gloss, and the tongues coil together not in some artful sparring but with a conjoined will an absolutely perfect cohesion a _unity_ in ambition.

A lust that canters irresistibly toward _one_ destination.

It is not that one monolithic perfection named _orgasm_ ; it is a fulfillment that ultimately never can be. A perfection as sure and unknowable in its cold face as death.

Fingers lace with hers.

There is a tension; an intensity; an anxiety.

This is a boundary that can be transgressed only once, you understand. It is to peer into Goddess' or God's or _whatever_ 's own boudoir; it is to admire the furnishings and the curtains, to prod at the old despot's tacky fixtures, to know that the vases aren't Original Ming or even Original Sumerian or Original Pleistocene but just cheap counterfeits from celestial Wal-Mart.

The curtains are dictator chic of the coarsest character; there're fucking _diapers_ tumbling from the bins.

But it is to know forbidden places, nevertheless, even if the sainted perfume has rotted with time's passage, even or the timeless.

Kiss her, and kiss her.

"I wanna do it." A _heave_ ; chest straining with the breath that plumes up up up. "I wanna do it. I- I want you to be her. I wish you had the clothes-"

"Oh, _honey_ , but I do. Y'see, it doesn't really _matter_ what I'm wearing, does it? Because I still have the clothes. I have the flesh. This flesh." A hand _snatched_ from its innocuous poise a trembling uneasy puppy on the sofa. It is dragged up, up.

 _Planted_ on one of the heavy soft tits that swallow that urge it to sink deeper and deeper and deeper, nipples thick and straining pebbling into a taut relief through the clutching fabric.

"I have _this_ body, right? The long long legs; the _too_ -long legs; the tits and the ass and the hips and even the _face_ like one'a your porno manga vixens, right, Kyoko- _tan_?"

"D-damn-"

"And I have the _ferocity_ , too, right? 'cause you'll scream." Punctuated with a kiss; a hot and scalding thing that is more a napalm-slathered brand. "And it won't matter. Screaming is for the audience; screaming is for you, too."

"G-goddamn-"

"Oh, it's the _Goddess_ , y'know. Goddess- _chan_. It's her wisdom. I bear her power, her _profundity_ in this ark. This great chest." Ah, ah, ah, the soft little tittering. "It will smite the innocent and the guilty alike, 'cause this just ain't the _point_.

"Innocence and guilt are something _man_ has wrought; not Goddess- _chan_. All are equally guilty in her eyes-"

"Damn. S-sounds like the worst of the Hebrew god-"

"I _knew_ y'were paying attention in class. So, y'want it-"

"I want it. I want it. I want you to be- be as rough as she is-"

"Good. 'cause I will be." 'cause it is a palm cradling that hungering flesh every thought's every genesis and every desire's nexus and our very communion with our fellow woman. Ain't that the simple reality?

Thought is conduit to procreation.

I do not _believe_ the aged Greek and Roman philosophers who bemoan this lust, who court the age when their humors will shrivel in the flesh when their blood will be stilled and denied the epicurean and the hedonistic and the simple clutching clamoring _need_ for more more more, to know only the words all-you-can-eat.

It's delirium; it's the simple _self-loathing_ that is the male, that heaves its shoulder against the portal that can be tasted in its burbling wet perfumes in the feminine. It is the feminine the female the womanly the perfect that is the candid, the animal, the libertine.

The _inspired_ , also.

Intuition is the deepest and supremest knowledge.

The constructed is the transient, and not the immortal; the constructed, the architectural, it is a delirium, a fever-dream stupidity that would anoint the skyscraper in its glass-and-steel affectations something imperishable beside the mountain that will be as the mountain even when it has corroded into soil and into dust and has settled again into the great waters to rear up again and break and fissure into mountains.

Men.

Are.

Idiots.

Their laws; their rules; their society.

Ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, you understand. Kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss.

"Ah... I- I'm afraid." This isn't a game, a fetishistic little play-pretend. We now dwell with landlady- _san_ and she is a figure wrought from dust animated now with Goddess- _chan_ 's sacrilegious sacredness in breath and it is a violent urgent _frenzy_ pluming through the body that is vaporous as smoke and tangible as a lead funerary slab tumbling from a passing Russian cargo jet whose crew'll simply whistle with a renewed intensity in insouciance.

Why, was that _ours_?

'least it ain't a cow.

"Good." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. "'cause you're going to serenade me, lil' Kyoko. You're past-due on rent-"

"D-damn." Shivering now. "She's... She's just like that. She's so rough."

"How rough-"

"However rough she _wants_ to be. S-sometimes, she just fucks me even when I'm b-begging-" a squeal, a squeak, when nails rip into delicious lush thighs, "And- and sometimes she's just- jus' _cruel_ -"

"What about now?"

With the eyes beseeching forbearance for the lies.

And a plea for candor.

"I- I dunno-"

"Yes, you do. Didja pet the kitty today?"

"T-three times. I couldn't get him outta my head. I wanted to just- just _banish_ him, y'know?"

"And?"

"It works. Kinda."

"I wasn't in class, either."

"T-too bad. I would've... I wanted to ask you out sometime. Y'know, to karaoke? Or- or something lame like that-"

"But what you want is _this_ , right?" Craning over her; heavier, hotter, even the shadow weighted in lead.

"Yeah." Thick in the throat. The eyes are huge and guileless and trembling and pleading for more and for liberation, also. Not balanced but mincing waltzing sambaing on that knife's edge. The soles prickle with blood and spearing hot violence and there is a will not to be shoved from it to commit to anything at all.

So fucking delicious.

Tongue lolling out to flit at the throat; to taste the graceful divot in the neck the collarbone in its fine satin allure. Fingers twist and pluck and pull at the buttons.

"She just... I dunno how to say it. She _fucks_ me-"

"Show me. Show me. Show me." Ah, ah, ah.

Ra-ra-Rasputin-

"Wha-"

"Show me. Show me. Show me." Everything in its mad multitude. "Show me, show me, whore. C'mon. You _are_ a nasty little slut, right? For her? 'cause you're not _really_ fighting back with her soft hand on your knee. And then your thigh.

"What a cute lil' schoolgirl slut you are." A prickle and a jab and a stab and it's now nails lililicious perfection _ripping_ along the thighs creasing her with huge heavy hot garnet stripes.

The answer is a _nya_.

"A-ah... Nya... It's- it's so fucking..." Trembling lashes flit and flicker and they will settle across those soft lush cheeks and ricochet away again. "It's so fucking weird; I thought about doing it-"

"'s not thought now. You _are_ doing it." Pulling; tugging.

Palm _slapped_ at the crisp black triad between her thighs.

"F-fuck!"

"'s what I'm going to do-"

"She's so formal. W-when she's doing it all; she has the most _perfect_ elocution." Ah, ah, _ah_. It is a plea. A command. It _must_ be.

So shall it be.

Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; but it is not the lips because they must be liberated to serenade, to adore with tingling tinkling sharp brittle notes like stained glass tossed into a centrifuge.

"Ahn... An'- an' she just... She has her fingers up my skirt before I even know what's happening, and she's pushing me down on- on the couch."

"Like this, slut?" A hand _there_ ; there is no subtlety. Palm clamped on her belly and now, now, rearing up through the blouse and it is on a shoulder. Twisting _wrenching_.

Her eyes now know the ceiling's sullen dust-whorled texture.

"Y-yes-"

"And she's fucking you _right_ away?"

"Y-yeah. She just- she doesn't even take off my blouse; she just has her fingers in me right _then_ and- and she's so mean. She's so cruel; she's evil." So there it must be, also. Tug down down down the panties and there's now nothing like resistance and there is an awe, a delirium in it.

In the tautly-pursed lips in their novel tawny hues, a grade deeper darker hot and throbbing and inflamed; the glabrous bare perfection already shimmering twinkling with lust with that essence that is not cum and still its ilk.

"A-ah... Hah... J-just like that-"

"Well, who cares about these little titties, right? Your lower half is much, _much_ more interesting. I've been fantasizing about putting your footprints on the ceiling since I met you." The eyes huge and quivering and there is fear and fervor in that delirious haze staggering through a drunk not in liquor but only lust.

"F-fuck-"

"And she just fingers you? So _unceremoniously_? Does she have these lililicious fingernails-"

"Y-yes. She... She's a housewife; not at all. With- with that sharp-cut suit and... And her pencil skirt and blouse and her high heels and I don't know what to do when she starts." So there are fingers falling down, down, down.

 _Splaying_ open the lips.

The answer is a scream so _intense_ that it wilts like a rose caressed with a flamethrower into a mealy tongue-trembling quietude.

A whisper.

A rasp of breath from the chest.

"You're fucking _drenched_ , you know. Feel this nasty _cunt_ ; this hairless adorable little-girl cunt. Or maybe it's a _slutty_ cunt. Is it that you fuck so _much_ you can't even take the _tiniest_ obstacle? It's so cute. These bare lips."

Peering down, down.

Eyes limn a riotous _scalding_ passage down along the body's fine lissome geometries.

The model elegances; the quivering knees and it's _there_. The lips; the lips; plump and lush and lavish and pert and...

And there is almost a slovenliness now, sighing open with a quiet damp plea.

"A-ahn... It's- it's just like that. She... She touches me; I can't do _anything_." And so it must be; it is a fingertip simply _brushed_ with a dainty inquisition over Little Red Riding Hood.

Not cowering; no, no, no.

It is a brazenness that belies the lips' frailty; the voice's brittle tortured little-girl exhortations for a figment named mercy.

Sodden; already _drenched_ with that succulent essence in a woman's cravings.

"Hgn... It's- she- she just- just keeps touching-"

"Like this? Or _rougher_?" Or does it _could_ it matter? To know the body's tremors; the savor the soft machinery in its impulses, its strange mechanistic neuron-torturing reflexes, its spasms and its simple sleek quietudes the satiny muscle and the furrowed and the ridges that coalesce that _ripple_ through the soul.

The madnesses in this ambition to sainted purity.

"You really _are_ a nasty little slut, aren't you? With this _drenched_ cunt; with this sopping-wet pussy; this fuck-hole _begging_ for more-"

"Yeah! Yeah!" The pitch has been captured; the cadence and the rhythm and there is absolutely no ambition to _reason_ in this place. "'s what she does-"

"Oh, so it will happen, then. I wish you could _really_ scream. Ah. Wait. You can." It is something so- so _fundamental_ ; it is a hand twisting up it is a palm _clamped_ on her mouth the eyes suddenly irresistibly humongous.

We will abandon the narrative; it will no longer be the script's shackling geometries but an artful extemporaneous elegance.

It will coalesce now in accordance with the heart's throb.

With the fingers' twist.

It is her eyes in their immensity it is the pupils bleeding into the lacquered-crude obsidian that's more than glazed; it is perhaps now fondant, a sumptuous and irresistible dessert to be savored choked down not in revulsion but only in a craving for more, more, more, while the French pastry masters' spines buckle under the lash the fascist boot while the tyrannical Nazi command is for more, more, more, more, more.

Want. More. I. Want. More.

So there shall be more; so there _must_ be more. A finger, the first, ah, ah, why be delicate? It is all a lie; it is not one not two but _three_ fingers at once and there is the first huge sawing quavering tremor boiling up from the throat and it is not merely strangled but stillborn, permitted to gather and coalesce in its fullest most authentic bulk and then simply _melting_ into tinkling bits of battered broken ruin against a wall that's less brick and more depleted uranium.

Because she is more than _drenched_ ; because it has been basting steeping _sopping_ in its own sumptuous juices a carnal marinade and it is boiling with her. It is to know the geometries the prickling authenticity the _purity_ in a woman's body bereft of a man's poisoning befouling _invasion_.

"Oh, oh, _my_. For having _such_ a slutty body, it seems like a man's never really touched it _bare_." Dragged out out out and there is a deeper candor a supreme sumptuous sincerity in the flesh those...

Those fantastical walls, ah, ah, ah, they are walls in the manner that the grandiose death-trap chamber's walls bristling with velvet spines spearing ripping through the imploring meat are walls. They will crush and tumble and they are rippling quavering _convulsive_.

They are eating, eating; jaws that gnash and gnaw and tear and tug and heave with the gourmand's sainted compulsions in oil-draped silk. Ripping and pulling.

They speak one word; it is their universe wrought around a vernacular in hunger.

 _More_.

"Look at these slutty juices. So- so _perfect_. Purity; it's something _ironic_ , isn't it?" While sticky threads dribble down down down heavy clutching clinging _gelid_ to the fingers' lissome geometries. "So so _so_ innocent, right?

"While you're almost _drowning_ in these soft luscious juices; with this honey. 's so fucking _delicious_ , isn't it?" _Tugged_ between my lips; swallowed down _dragged_ into those hot clutching depths like a man captured in Charybdis' cradling embrace.

A wheeling tortured twisted _vanishing_.

You will not surface 'til the seas boil away into salt.

There is an _ngn..._

A coo.

A quiver.

"So _perfect_ ; sweeter than honey. Aren't you, slut? He must wear a rubber when he fucks you; or maybe it's that he wears a rubber while you fuck _him_. Whichever. But you're mine now. You're mine; you're _mine_." Bearing down; a cruelty a wickedness in the fingers nimble sodden with her _lubricated_ still with spittle and with _her_ , with those ineffable syrups those biologic sublimities those delectations that simply _are_.

It is the soft machinery's non-wisdom; it is merely because it is, and forever will be.

A twist.

A strain.

"Ahn..." To liberate the gasp; to gorge yourself on the heave and quaver and coo. "A-ah, ah-"

"Is this what you'd imagined?"

"Rougher." There is now only candor in the eyes that're less glazed and more _iced_ ; the body that quakes and thrashes. "I want it rougher; I want it rougher. I- I wish y'could be like some of the time, when she- she has a cock-"

"Too bad, alas, alas. This flesh this _erudition_ are nothin' like Eri- _chenchei_." There is insouciance. "But I guess it'll just need to be, won't it? I'm. Fucking. _Hungry_." Slip away the buttons and the belly taut and sleek and a graceful tight-laced allure in muscle and fat and skin dimpling and concave and straining with a gasp of strength around the ribs' sharp relief is now tasted.

Is savored; adored.

"A-ah-"

"You're going to shut up while I _fuck_ you. Got it? This is for _me_ ; this is for Landlady- _san_. If you come, if you don't, what does it matter, right?" And it is to drag terrible huge heaving _warbles_ now from the lips; it is fingers three _four_ twisted into her, wrenched through resistance's impotent hopeless fruitless affectations.

Quick daggering plunges and they are now _squelching_ with her; with an obscenity pluming burbling up overflowing overstuffed with lust with her cum with her craving spurting up up up around the lunging figures that are no longer digits no longer anything so trivial but only a surrogate cock only _esurience_ in flesh.

It is the Huns the Mongols the fucking Red Army hammering down every pretension of an obstacle; it is another hand no longer content with stymieing silencing the yowls and yelps and screeches and squeals but tearing tugging pulling _ripping_ at her body.

Fingers fastened around a nipple when the bra's sloughed off like a moulting serpent in cream; the breasts pert and fine and they are very _very_ tiny, a modesty that surpasses the word's dimensions shrinking narrowing into itself a recursive twist that could perhaps implode into its own black hole. The nipples are thick and plump and _clamoring_ ; the areolae more curvaceous than the dainty bits of fat.

"A-ahn, ah, ah, what're- what're you-"

"Fucking you. Fucking you." Sink down now; more and more and more and it is a hand _hammered_ between her thighs it is a will to grind the four deeper and deeper more and more and more.

It is a wish to channel this sainted obsidian divinity this perfection named Sophie.

But, ah, ah, ah, alas, it cannot be.

The thumb is warded away; there is an authentic squeal and it is an aversive thing, because we must speak in the language of those that ultimately say nothing at all.

So it is lavished on that plump bead; it is wound twisted over Little Red Riding Hood and there is shivering there is convulsion there is wet delirious dreamy hunger there is a long terrible plangent _howl_ when the fingers not merely meet those lips elusive and furtive and receding from the hungry groping maw but _collide_.

"A-ah, wah, ah, ah-"

"Oh, isn't this what you were craving? Inviting me over for tea?" While the lips capture and abandon; while they swallow down and spit up with a fanciful indifference to anything but the moment's appetite.

It is the savage presiding over a dinner party; it is to know the brute cannibal's lust for the fine canapés and the foie gras and the elegant petis-fours.

"A-what're-"

"Shh. I don't fucking _care_. What a delicious little whore you are." Stabbing; impaling. More and more and more and, well... "But I _would_ like something. You wouldn't mind." It is not a question. It is to slip down, down, down.

Palms splayed with an achingly languorous ease over the belly; fingers become talons _claw_ and _rip_ and simply melt away into a graceful soft skein and lapse again into their murderous carnal mayhem; the lips are fangs and the fangs are lips soft and dewy and tearing and bestial.

Lap.

Sticky gloss adorns her hips' elegant feminine roundness.

And _those_ lips.

There is no patient foreplay; there is no _kiss_ of the delicacy that is not craved and it is legs not even dragged over your shoulders but just _torn_ away; they are splayed twisted open she is a fucking _meal_ she is cheap ramen she is the most sumptuous banquet and nothing matters because _all_ is my province.

All is my property, to be abused and neglected and _devoured_ as whim commands.

The tongue not a graceful patient flit and flicker; her voice is an articulated sob, rearing up up up dragged with a groping madness from the chest her palms slapped with huge quick wet stripes at the sofa, lashing ricocheting from tits to fabric and to tits again and back and there is madness there is a humongous tormented _yowl_.

"O-oh, oh, oh, _fuck_!" Bewail it.

Tormented.

Eat, and eat, and eat.

She is succulent; she is a purified rarefied allure and it is not Sophie's and it is, also, that lilicious sublimity untarnished untroubled with a man's ugly rotting essence with the quality that is at best sashimi and at worst a derelict fish market.

Tongue rippling laving lolling rolling; flitting and flickering and her clit is something to be savored, also, while fingers dagger through the lips trembling clutching splayed apart now with quick urgent caresses.

Clamoring for her.

I am esurience given guise.

I am hunger.

"I- I can't- I can't believe how much I'm _coming_!" Incredulity is merely this; it is reality rejected, but it cannot deny the flesh.

Toes strain; coil; curl.

The legs spasm and shiver and there is a kick; once and twice and again and again and again and...

"I- I- she always fucks me; she always really really _really_ fucks me. Puts- puts herself against me an' 's the only time she's- she's _naked_ even a little-"

"Like this?" With a quirk _jerk_ ; with skirt not hiked but just summiting up to my belly and it is to be bared exposed swallowed devoured churning thick sticky with the evening's lust with its eternity its endless unruptured madnesses.

Its lusts.

Yes.

I am become Lust.

It is an act of theogenesis.

It is an act of deicide, also, to fasten your fingers around Aphrodite's throat, to take hold, and to squeeze and squeeze and squeeze while the sainted breath is _sucked_ from pert plump soft lips dragged down into your lungs taken into your body while it is known while it is _devoured_.

While it is atomized and dusted over every cell and while it steeps like the junk that still throbs through every vein and can only be known in the faint gradations the percolating morsels of vicissitude of nuance like balloons popped in Dresden while the bombs pummel and grind and crunch and flare.

Taste her.

Not with anything so prosaic as the mouth; it is another pair of lips. The perpendicular becomes alignment, becomes a geometry unassailable in its elegances, its perfections, and self-abnegation in the selfish selflessness melts down _transmutes_ with carnal alchemy into the most achingly sumptuous communion.

It is to Know; it is something huge monolithic _biblical_.

Touch and eat and hunger and gnaw and there is a long sweet sticky heaving _squelch_ in their collision; in our bodies' union. In the thighs entangled in fingers groping and clutching. It is combative; it is not delicate Sapphic poetry but it is beat mania madness it is slathered with her with _this_ lust boiling up up up denied outlet pouring into spittle and the fingers' produce and it is her head thrown back.

Words without guise without form without shape and silhouette are flung from trembling lips in senseless babel that speak of meaning without meaning; that announce being in non-being.

"Wah-hah-aha-ah-'s-waitaaauuuungn!" Melting down.

It is a radio's last tortured strains while the iron fingers crunch down down down.

It is a screech.

"Wah!"

Touch her; touch her.

 _Fuck_ her.

Heels ground into the sofa and it is more than aggressive more than _combative_ ; it is her thighs groped clutched torn and tugged and it is stockings not merely damp but _melting_ with sweat and it is to know her know her know her it is for the body to taste the body it is for orgasm for lust for bliss to coil and rip and mantle up up up with ragged serrated talons to prise apart the sheaths from every nerve and to _lap_ at them with a blood-poison fervor.

It is to be _transfigured_.

Flung against the sofa's armrest and her body is mine, and mine hers.

Wriggle and writhe and there is only the sublimity in rearing up up up upon an endless unbroken plateau; it is not even circuitous, because there is no _cant_ in this. An unruptured line; a seamless fervor a fanaticism that is heat red raw hot scarlet psychosis flaring up through the flesh boiling the bodies in their own skin and there is only the will to _melt_ into her.

It is a spurting sputtering flourish and flare.

It is her wail.

Her toes tugged between my lips and eating, eating, eating; her mouth wound 'round _my_ ankle and now, now, it is to silence one another with that feminine grace bathed in sweat that pelts with every twist; when it is to be _in_ her atop her it is to fuck fuck _fuck_ without constraint and it is to taste the gradations in geometry.

In what femininity can capture in hips and thighs and that flesh, that flesh. Wheeling and straining and it is a crash a collision; it is an awareness in rippling soft skin in the fat and meat and hunger in their confrontation.

It is falling back; it is toes a great clutch a harmonica elegance cradled between my lips tucked deeper, deeper, tasting the fine sleek softness and tingled tormented with plump gloss-enameled lust and it is her mouth _groping_ tearing at the sweat-lucent stockings.

 _S-so fuckin' good._

 _So amazing._

Voice.

Ours.

It is a collective thrall; it is not _mine_ not _hers_ but a great conjoined being a vast snarling nimbus a front wrought in its constituent madnesses.

She will thrash; I will fall; and then she will fall and I must rise heave and...

And there is not a _finishing_.

Craving and clutching and her fingers twisted between my thighs mine between hers groping fastened around that sumptuous delta that triad in flesh in skin bare and shimmering and sodden and never ever ever with any word but _more_.

Kiss her; kiss her; kiss her.

Swallow the breath and her tongue, also.

Eyes glazed.

Crazed.

And now, now, it is to slither sway between the thighs; to savor their clutching deafening _presence_ around your cheeks, the softness sheathing _hard_ muscle the tongue's tingling flit and flicker and fingers spearing stabbing pummeling pounding knuckles introduced to hips and there is _her_ exhaustion.

Forever; eternally.

Wilting.

Arms flung out; crane up up up and it is with hair draping us mine and hers and it is soft and shimmering with sweat it is _effulgent_ with desire it is to be knelt between her thighs; it is to know their shiver and spasm and her toes' endless clutching curl.

Language has died an indecorous and cowardly death, huddled in its own greasy effluent.

It is smeared on the tatami in huge fat blackened streaks with our sweat.

"'s... 's so hot. I- I'm goin' crazy... C-can't take it... I... I've _never_ come that much." While fingers gather and tug and coax her lust's Great Lakes puddles onto a palm; while it is dragged up up up to lips ornamented with a tongue wheeling out.

Lapping and stroking and _swallowing_.

"Oh? Never?"

"He was so fucking _lazy_." A riotous urgent _epiphany_. "He'd- he'd never just go down on me like tha-aaat." A _stab_ between her thighs.

"Really?"

"R-really. Really." A strange Edenesque quality in this. We will gorge ourselves on wisdom's corruption; we are Hawa named Eve and Lilith.

But which is which?

"R-really. Really. R-r-raghn..." Falling back again when the spine strains into an awkward half-sit-up to peer at the fingers vanishing between her thighs.

"You have the _prettiest_ pussy, y'know, Kyoko? It's so _hot_ -"

"It _hurts_. Y-you... I never fucked 'til it _ached_ like that. Your fingers are so amazing; _everything_ is fucking amazing." Cooing and murmuring and sighing and whimpering and it is to tumble through acreages of quirk and convolution.

"No? Should I stop?"

"M-my body's saying, _No_. And, _Yes_ , too. I- I dunno. I want... I wanna do this with you again-"

"I'm not your girlfriend."

"I don't wanna girlfriend. I- I see it. I... I mean, wow, what kinda fucking _awesome_ thing would that be, havin' a girlfriend like you? But- but it'd be like having a pet wolf, right?"

"I'd say so." A heavy cohesive thick _thread_ twisted around a finger; lapped away with tongue's inquisitive stripe. "You taste _ambrosial_ , you know."

"I... Can we do it again? Fuck like this, I mean?"

"Oh, yes. Whenever you'd like; so long as I'm not busy."

"S-same here." We will kiss; it is something courtly, perhaps.

Lips settling on hers.

Slow.

Soft.

Tongues will converge.

There will be a mutual breath; it must be tasted in its fullest depth; it is gasoline flitting up into vapor, and her eyes are a torch, and mine, also.

You must swallow the flame.

There is no smoke to breathe or belch.

Cradle her closer.

A kiss; another; another.

"I definitely think I'm painfully in lust with you, Kyoko. Spiritually." Daddy-o.


	8. House of The Rising Sun

The sun is an incandescence; a bubbling heavy gasoline-fueled haze throbbing and palpitating along the fantastical horizon that only man's artifice could spit up in its ugly sleek effulgences in glass and steel and there's a fundamental _hideousness_ in everything. The night is not camouflage; it is beauty permitted to gather in thick black curtains flung over the grandiose geometries, for silhouettes to flourish their place, reality reduced to simple _shape_ and not the crude children's scrawl in a coloring book that knows only one hue: Chrome.

It is a fanaticism for a perfection, a homogeneity. It is indictment of a culture that would rather not remember the hues' names in their vast glorious constellations, their sublime spectra in their great convolutions; it is a society that would be immeasurably more comfortable with perfect compartmentalized sameness. It is a race much more comfortable investing its winnowing wizened cogitation in the idols in their sainted strut, the fickle affections that are our neuroses given guise and heaved out and boomeranging back at us through the monitors in their spearing cyclopean effusion.

Ah, ah, this is the simple truth.

We would rather not bother memorizing the animals' names, so our faith is extinction. We will be the survivor, and in this, we will have the luxury in anointing ourselves the New Divinities, the New Gods. The gun and the artillery piece and the atom bomb and the space rocket and ultimately, ultimately, ah, it is ineluctable, this place Third From The Sun will pass from metaphor to a celestial nightmare.

The earth is blue, and there is no god to be seen from space. There is perhaps not the goddess, either, but the goddess and Goddess- _chan_ , also, have little meaningful interest in being seen in being known tasted in the tangible. There is little affectation in these exalted spectacles; there is no pretension of the cloud-wreathed paradisaical places.

The Garden dwells in the soul, y'know, daddy-o. The violence and the mayhem and the madness there, also. Do not blame Goddess- _chan_ for the fingers and the hands and the hungers, also. Do not aspire to blame Goddess- _chan_ the goddess anything _**aaaanything**_ at all for the ugly priapic bits of hubris that hunger for attention for love every new skyscraper a revivified measuring contest with Gaea.

There is no competition. She is supreme, and there is a sense of awe in this. We will struggle and scrabble and the sun will throb and heave and bubble and boil and our transient cataclysms our greatest most exalted scientific enterprise is little more than a _breath_ a yawn Sol's arms languorously outstretched to wrap in warming light this strange heap of stellar mists cohering into worlds that will breed their own annihilation.

We will devise great machinery. Our Z Machines will strain and heave and bubble with superheated plasmas that crest so so _so_ near to the sun's coronas. And are still ultimately helpless.

Our most exalted creation is in violence evanescent and irrevocable at once.

Our scientists will peer with huge unblinking eyes in still silent incredulous awe at our great feat. With a thunder that defies the senses' very ambit; with a brilliance that will spear through the ears; with a violence that _flowers_ and for a moment, the most achingly fugitive instant, it will be forgotten what this means. It is our pride, our hubris, to summon a giant's fist to gather the _capture_ the earth the soil the brick the rock the concrete and heave aloft millions of tons of dust and dirt and debris sodden and befouled with the elemental forces that will sicken our youth and desecrate our world.

The soil will throb with a strange clattering silent voice; the water will blacken; the skies will be wreathed in gloom.

We will still know only that we have taken god's power in our hands.

This is our conviction.

God.

The masculine.

The _man_.

It is stupidity. It is the fundamental inanity in _man_. Man, man, man. The Y-chromosome; it is the repository of humanity's defects. Women will countenance this, because we are afraid. We are fearful of the great dreadful beast whose death throes are convulsive and fang-gnashing and a dying cobra is perhaps more harrowing than any other animal.

A buffalo, also. An elephant whose tusks will still gore and tear and rip.

But they are not absolutely without merit, because our bodies cast us as the hypocrite in the flesh's urgent hungry wet lusts. They must be domesticated must be _controlled_ , ah, ah, and still, still, they are here. They will still invade the mind, torment the soul.

It is evolutionary; it is a gasp a whisper a hot fragrant wind bubbling up with primeval hungers from those dark waters that cradle steward that are the essence of the flesh beyond the soul, beyond the spirit. It is this prison's architect; it is to know to savor communion not in fingers laced together but in a plunge a relentless irresistible ineluctable _pitch_ into these unknowable black places, wrought not in words in their consensus their imprecision their simple defects but only in intuition.

In the stroke and thrash; the shapes and shapelessnesses, also, that will tyrannize the mind with their hungers. Simpleminded absolutes in rage, in lust, in fervor, in frenzy, in anger without wrath in the fangs bared and shimmering wet-hot with blood dribbling down the jaws the breath pluming up sodden steam coalescing in bitter snow-swept air.

It is _here_ that we feel it. It is the predatory ardor that animates the flesh; it is the hostility the intensity the hackles-raising _violence_ that is not the Eurodisco perfection the Planet O symphonic but something elusive, something that can never be known because perhaps it would rather not be.

We are not afraid of men because they will laugh at us, but because they delude themselves it is their right to kill, to throttle, to rape.

They are afraid because we are their tyrants in lust in love in adoration; because our laughter is their worth belittled because our glances our sighs our fickleness is their every morsel of meaning denied. They would rather not be with us, and we would rather not be with them.

It is in culture that we are welded together.

It is in culture that lust's truth is muddled and perverted and camouflaged in meaningless bits of meaning.

I desire them. I would rather not. It is, ah, ah, it is a _complicated_ relationship, you understand. This woeful _craving_ for man-meat, for boy-flesh. It is not only the fuck-meat; it is only the fuck-meat. It is a love for girls a fanaticism a fervor a _zeal_ for the geometry. And it is still a weakness a birth defect, perhaps, a glint of genetic poison a need for another _splash_ of chlorine in the gene pool before it is fit for swimming.

There are hungering glances; flitting eyes. There is the awareness of flesh of a man's sweat in its pungent wicked ugliness that is still an invitation to adorning yourself to _smearing_ yourself with its perversions, its corruptions.

Defilements.

The eyes flicker and flare and there is shame tucked deep in your breast and it is not this patriarchal ideal not the slut's self-loathing but a sense of aesthetics betrayed. The woman is the greater; the woman is _perfection_.

Where for a man there are, at best, crude sharp angles, a woman is best savored in sinuous round grace.

Where a man is strength in the flesh, a woman is quick nimble guile.

Where a man is an elephant, trundling crushing _brutal_ , a woman is the fox, or perhaps the wolf. The elephant in its trampling shambling ferocity will perhaps survive if the fox or wolf is an idiot. But it is always the wolf that will bleed the elephant.

It is always the fox that will exhaust it 'til the tongue lolls out and its great stupid bulk is sprawled in the shrubbery where the fangs and the talons will rip and pluck and pick and the circling vultures and ravens and perhaps the tigers, also, shall feast.

And even the tiger will succumb to the fox and the wolf.

But the elephant's simple _bulk_ entrances. There is the eyes' communion; there is a unity in lust in craving in basal _desire_. There is familiarity's sharp sumptuous quirk; there is a smile _more_ than a smile and there is an importuning huge _heat_ flowering from that sensual garden nestled in the gut. There is not only recognition; it is not a sense of reunion, halves welded together again after eternities.

It is the familiar's delectation. It is the eyes cradled in heavy lashes like quills wrought from thickened India ink; it is the chin's quirk; it is a _smile_.

More than anything, a smile. Syrupy and slow and _intricate_.

The lips' first stirring.

Growing.

The sun's feathery heat unfurling like an angel's wings to embrace the world.

His, also.

The thick shoulders.

Heavy.

 _Huge_.

"Hey, Ayumi- _chan_!" Men are not delicate things; men are, of course, idiots, really. Virtually every one. Ah, ah, but the simple _handsomeness_ awes. It is not even the cogitation that is wanting. This is too vast too _senseless_ a thing.

It is a deeper disease; a desecration.

A metabolic defect.

"Genta- _kun_." But how can you not vamp; how can you not mince; how can you not _plead_? The... The proportions have twisted themselves; have riven themselves apart into confetti and been stitched together again into cut-up humanity and he is _sublime_. It is the bodybuilder's preening fanaticism for the flesh, but an effortless thing. It is _heavy_.

This is what is known. The stern sinewy muscle straining up up up through _everything_. The crisp taut tee-shirt rippling like an overstuffed condom with simple strength. It is not the 'roided-up idiocy endlessly self-obsessed in its unpretentious homoeroticism, eternally leering at its own quicksilver reflection.

But it is _powerful_ ; the biceps could be mistaken for a tank's turret ring in their girth; the thighs are firm and heavy and the legs are long, lean, rippling with a brutal vigor. The jaw squared and the scalp is still little more than velvet, a likeness of a freshly-shorn black sheep. The eyes are pretty; this is the only possible word.

Pretty.

Quick _clomping_ steps in Frankenstein's Monster shoes. He is _colossal_ ; it is to be dwarfed, even in your height. Six-four or six-six or six- _whatever_. It is a presence like a shark's fin cutting up in auburn with heavily-tanned sun-battered skin through the gray wan sullen salaryman sea.

There are no words, because this would be to invite _its_ wrath.

But there is gentleness. A gaiety a garrulous deep _basso profondo_ voice throbbing up like an Orthodox chorale and there is only intensity; a perennial heaving _frenzy_ in the body's relentless metabolic psychosis. The muscle ripples thick and variegated and it is not mere exercise, even if the weights in their heavy circumscribed steel burdens have been lifted and set down and lifted again and again and again.

"I didn't think I'd see you around, Ayumi- _chan_. How've ya been? It's been awhile, huh?" Crane up up up at the simple _hugeness_. The essence of sweat; the eyes are softer than the flesh.

"It _has_ been, huh, Genta- _kun_ -"

"Aw, ya don't hafta keep callin' me that-"

"Then don't call me Ayumi- _chan_. How's Mitsuhiko?"

"Oh, y'know him." Knuckles brushed with a languid ease at a mouth that could probably swallow a man's head.

And not his own.

That would be something altogether much much much surrealer than you'd expect from Genta. An elbow scythes, a sharp _crunch_ against some dude's scalp avoided by a polite quarter-inch or so.

"You two, ah-"

"Still livin' together. He said y'weren't at school yesterday; that he was sorta-kinda worried an' junk."

"Oh, you know me. A mercurial free spirit-"

"Yeah. Wow. Lookit whatcher wearin'. It's all sexy an' stuff." Subtlety, they name will never be Genta. Even in a society that regards superhero films and formulaic anime as high art for adult consumption.

"Yup. It's not all _my_ clothing, either."

"Ah. Um. Whose?"

"Saw Asami-"

"Whoa, seriously? Y'saw Mitsuhiko's big sis, huh? She's real pretty, huh? N-not pretty like _you_ , Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Ayumi. Ayumi." It is, oh, with something surpassing merely the _familiar_. It is not quite draping yourself into a vast gnarled biceps, wilting against the heavy muscle-knotted belly. "How's work?"

"Oh, y'know, it's construction work. The foreman says I'm doin' a real good job; he wantsta promote me. And I'm gonna be doing journeyman stuff in plumbing. Mom and dad are real happy about it.

"They still got their store, but construction pays pretty good."

"I'd say so. You, ah, _are_ supporting your no-account _roommate_ -"

"Naw. He's great. I love livin' with Mitsuhiko. He's all nice an' stuff. 'sides, um..." There is a flush; a guileless graceful percolation through the cheeks. "He's real good ta me. He makes me _allll_ the unadon I want.

"I'm just goin' back now. I had a _long_ shift last night. Just finishing up and goin' home. Ah, I'm so _glad_ ta be goin' back."

"So, ah, are you exhausted, Genta?"

"Me? Naw. I like my job. It's great. You get to work out an' they _pay_ y'for it. 'sides, the money's _great_. They're always givin' me more and more and more."

"It's 'cause you're built like an elephant, you know. They can probably pay you to do three or four guys' work."

"Maybe. An' I'm always pumping iron, too, on my off days. Hey! I'm working at the Muscle Café, too."

"Seriously?"

"It's in downtown Baker. Yeah." Laughter, again, again, that huge _guffaw_ that should be scrawled from the lips in immense scrawling neon-napalm comic book strokes. "It's _sweet_ ; I'd dump my construction job and do it full-time if they were open every day.

"But they're not. The owner's kinda handsy, but that's okay."

"Mitsuhiko must be jealous-"

"Oh, _naw_. We're real cool about that kinda stuff. He knows I've got a big big appetite." A palm _clapped_ on that vast muscular heap. "Wanna come back? I'm sure he's still just studying like a nerd."

"I wouldn't mind. Is that an invitation?" It's something faintly vampiric, isn't it? With eyes _bubbling_ with blood's promise in sharp hot frenzy.

"Mmm. Sure. I mean, have you eaten?"

"Don't have much of an appetite for _food_ , honestly." A vulpine ease in this poise.

"Mitsuhiko'll be so happy to see you. 's been awhile. We don't get together like we used to, with school an' work an' junk. I saw Conan or- or Shin'ichi or _whatever_ he's callin' himself nowadays." Those heavy brows knitted together in untroubled candor; the eyes darkened, limpid in their sincerity, and blackened, tasting the simple _aggravation_ that flowers from the name. The present wrought from the past and future in their collision, bleeding together in his narcissistic geometries.

"Did you?"

"Yup. Yup. He's kinda... I don't like him like this. He always used ta be such a cool guy. He's a dork now." Well, not _now_ ; eternally.

The, ah, dorkism has only been liberated to flare into a huge heavy relief tattooed in every word and deed.

"I don't think I like that guy anymore; he's such a dingus. I mean... I know he's still our friend an' stuff, but he's gotten all arrogant an' junk. What's with him? Even Ran- _san_ ," the eyes draped in a dreamy hot intensity with _that_ caressed with hungering lips, "doesn't want much to do with him anymore.

"'s only about Heiji- _niichan_ that'll talk to him. What a douche."

"Well, who knows." A shrug; slow and languorous. "I'm sure it must have been _very_ disappointing to find out that everybody knew-"

"Duh. We're not _dumb_. I just kinda figured everybody knew an' was playin' along an' stuff. Hey, y'talk to Gin an' Vodka lately?"

"I saw Wormwood this morning."

"Damn. She's _hot_. I like her." It's the gourmand's esurient _needs_ ; it's as simple as announcing your appetite to a waiter, a waitress.

"Who doesn't? I'd like to see your apartment with Mitsuhiko. I heard you moved."

"Yeah. The last landlady was a total dee-bag. She learned we were a couple an' freaked out. I mean, _c'mon_. Two hot guys livin' together. We ain't just _roommates_." Guffawing again. "But it's even better.

"Seriously. I can afford a bigger place. An' I can chill out an' play video games without Mitsuhiko freakin' out while he's gettin' his nerd on."

"Congratulations."

"Y'still livin' in your little efficiency?"

"Uh-huh-"

"You're _rich_." Jeebus, _must_ this be declaimed? "Why live there?"

"Livin' the life. The student _whatever_. It's why I _do_ bother with class sometimes, Genta. I, ah... C'mon. Take me up. Take me home. Country rooooad-"

"Hah. I like your voice." Tugged now with a quick boisterous ease; it's another charming street, another artless constellation of architectures, the buildings tri-levels in their homogeneity, a washed-out heap of grays and tans and auburns and fawns and whites that're little more than staring at a monochrome photo and suddenly understanding that there _is_ color.

They just didn't bother with it. Ah, ah, but you can tease it out in a jacket's sharp flash.

You can intuit it in the wares announced through windows still sullen and gloom-draped in the early morning, the shopkeepers a drowsy apparition, yawning through fists clamped before lips, water splashed with half-remembered Shinto pageantry to ward away poverty's grime.

And it's another building beside every other. Tucked into a leafy lot, a place defined in a rarefied cool greenery that's an invitation in the gathering baking battering swelter to settling with a beer or even scalding tea taken Arabic to mutter over the day's affairs with the old men huddled around shogi boards or the worthy retired ladies whose shrill chattering is forever lingering on rejuvenated nothing.

Steel doors.

A _mansion_.

Nothing so grandiose, so ornate, as a British manor; but the door opens into a slender corridor unfurling in hardwood into a sitting room that could probably swallow _my_ little efficiency and feast on another three or four.

There is still tatami, but fresh, newly-replaced, a crisp scent bereft of the accumulated sweat and dust and _must_ that's any student apartment's essence; it is not a kitchenette but a kitchen, and rice's satiny perfumes slither through the nostrils.

"Hey, _Geeenta-cha_ \- oh, Ayumi- _chan_. H-hey." Ah, ah, forever this _sublime_ shyness; and doubly so when Mitsuhiko's mamboing around a corner with...

An apron.

Absolutely _nothing_ but an apron.

An awareness of the lean lissome grace; the sinuous legs, achingly feminine in their glabrous definition; the slim arms the elegance the _domesticity_ in the figure's poise, curtained with modesty's adorable figments with ruffled frilled peachy fabric, gauzy and evocative, the sun's sloshing stain captured in a great blossoming flare through the window planted behind him overlooking another interchangeable courtyard.

"A-ah, Ayumi- _chan_ , uh, I- I didn't know _you_ were coming. H-how are you?" That giggle that's nothing so _frivolous_ ; the cheeks in their freckled pointillism heaving now with a carnation kissed with sweat's rearing glint.

"Well, I'm _very_ happy that I'm here now. So, ah, naked apron for Genta?"

"'s my _favorite_ breakfast." And now, now, the humongous Frankenstein's Monster feet _tromp_ in socks; arms outstretched and Mitsuhiko's slim allure is borne aloft.

Colorless; surpassing even his sister's fine complexion.

A lavish fetishistic juxtaposition against tawny sun-battered muscle.

"A-ah... Ahn... G-Genta, c'mon, Ayumi- _chan_ 's here-"

"So what?" With lips esurient; snapping slapping wet and ravening and unpretentious along a willowy beauty in a fine dimpled throat; an embrace that's an overgrown child's with an overgrown _very_ exotic teddy bear. "She's cool with it-"

"Y-yeah, but... Ah... G-Genta, man, it's-"

"Shh. I'm really, _really_ hungry. Need to keep my strength up with a _lot_ of protein, y'know." And it's to admire. To _adore_ this while the sun's invited, beckoned, _coaxed_ through the apron in an X-ray silhouette.

He is beautiful.

 _They_ are lovely.

"D-damn, Genta, you're-"

"I was horny _all_ night after that show y'put on for me before I went to work. It's _your_ fault for forgetting the time; I didn't getta get off-"

"I- ah... Don't you want your breakfast-"

"Screw breakfast." This is epiphany.

An unreality.

Genta? Rejecting this ideal named _sustenance_? A meal's huge lush effusion?

Ah, ah, ah, but it is _another_ hunger; another raw gnawing fang-gnashing fervor.

"S-shouldn't we tell Ayumi- _chan_ -"

"Just _Ayumi_ , Mitsuhiko- _kun_." The lips' quirk; the eyes diabolic zeal. "You two are just... So fucking _delicious_ , y'know?" Settling on a sofa, sleek, clean, _bourgeois_ in its familiar fawn-hued suede, planted before a tee-vee that's self-evidently the family's altar.

Its cold black stare reflects nothing but _us_ in our convolutions; our through-the-looking-glass geometries and our twisting madnesses. Our lusts. Our realities.

"A-ahn, Ayumi, Ayumi, A-Ayu- dammit, Genta, 's... That's _really_ too much with a guest-"

"Why? I've always wondered what you two look like when you're profaning our mandate to be fruitful and multiply; when you're making a fool of our baby-making machine politicians. Oh, oh, oh, you're both so _lovely_.

"You'd be delectable in a dress, Mitsuhiko-"

"Dude, he _has_ a house dress. He wears it sometimes. An' the stockings an' high-heels. I like those a lot." With Genta's tact as fine as _discreet_ as a rust-enameled sledgehammer slathered with barnacles and twisted from the ocean's bowels with a thousand years' rest.

Mitsuhiko's flush like roses flourishing in the mid-morning swelter.

"Genta, man-"

"Well, 's true. An' that skirt. Oooh! I like the schoolgirl outfit the _best_. Maybe the nurse; he looks good in all of it-"

"Well, well, _well_. A bitta crossplay, huh, Mitsuhiko- _tan_?" How can you not? "Oh, Mitsu- _chiii_ -"

"S-stop it, Ayumi. It's- it's just... We're living together, you know. P-put me _down_ , Genta-"

"Why? You're all hard against me." And it _is_ true, isn't it? An inkling of geometries in profile; a giant and his adored toy.

The flesh is thick, trembling; _tiny_ against Genta and not what you'd call _meaningless_.

 _Average_.

Pulsating and clamoring.

Arms wound 'round Mitsuhiko's waist; the fine trim beauty that will not set will not _harden_ into coarse gnarled masculinity with time's and age's depredations. Yes, yes, ultimately, he will perhaps transmute with temporal alchemies into an aged pretty-boy; into a Hollywood-perfect glimpse of a man that has never quite tasted puberty but only gravity's accumulated cruelties.

But not soon.

"A-ahn... G-Gen- _tan_." It is intuitive, beautiful. This voice rearing up; the hair _humongous_ , a voluptuous russet curtain thrown back fanned over the shoulders. "I- I was all disappointed last night, _too_ , y'know.

"You're the one who forgot the time-"

"Who's the big breadwinner, huh? And who's the housewife-student-whatever? You're such a nerd, Mitsu- _tan_. 's you's s'posed'ta keep track'a that stuff. Lemme just have some protein, huh?" Urgent and clamoring and that fine burden is wheeled twisted _set_ with delicate ease like china populating a table on theirs.

And there is a giant knelt.

Genuflecting.

"G-Gentaaang..." Groaning; sighing; fingers tremble on the bur-headed scalp and now, now, there is a gasp; a shiver traces its languid passage up up up through the slender body. "W-whoa, whoa, y-you're..."

"This is _sublime_." Gawping at them with awe. It is my voice; it is a tremor between the thighs. "I've never seen this. Two _boyz_ in their homoerotic idyll-"

"A-Ayu-... 's- so mean. Making me nervous like this." Mitsuhiko's protests are as sincere as a politician's vows; Genta is stained with a wolf's candor; it is of little relevance.

A dog's.

It will rut wherever it is craved.

When the flesh flares.

When the hunger roars up, up.

A sticky brush of lips and the apron's little more than memory, eased up up up and there is a kiss, another, another, humongous scarred fingers cradling the fine sleek tight skin and it is to know a grace and beauty apart from the posturing masculinities shuddering stewing in their own insecurities.

Because there is absolute comfort; Genta's head in its great dimensions its rejuvenated hair to be hacked away again the tallest grass to be introduced to the Tsar's neurotic blade _first_ ; the broad jaw and the lips with something that could only be called delicacy.

It is to know a fine and fragile delectation; it is a dreadful beast being introduced to fine French cuisine. Mitsuhiko's legs shiver and strain and there is muscle rippling not denied and not nurtured but merely as it is in Narcissus' sorceries _there_.

Step aerobics and not heavy barbell squats.

A quiver.

"I- I'm... I'm gonna come, Genta, 's... It's too much; you're-"

"Love it like that. C'mon. C'mon. Here. Here. Let me-"

"W-wash your hands if you're gonna touch me there!" With fingers like a garden of surrogate cocks rearing up to _brush_ at that clean taut pucker.

"Sorry, sorry. _Touchy_ -"

"You're- you're just _slobby_. 's... I'm... C-coming..." Closer, and closer.

A documentarian's inquisition, you understand.

An ethnographer's zeal for the rarefied, for the _experiential_ ; so it is with lips brushed along Mitsuhiko's knee, creamy and sleek and the skin taut and untarnished with the sun.

 _Yamato nadeshiko_.

So shall it be.

And lips _groping_ at Genta's while the flesh clutched between them _flares_ ; while it _swells_ ; while it becomes its own irresistible straining reasoning explosive and convulsive and there is a palpable throb with a kiss-kiss-kiss on the skin.

And a kiss for Genta, also; an awareness of being dwarfed, even if it's not quite the disparity they taste. A thick tacky faintly _powdery_ lushness with a tongue's slithering invasion; an intrusion without anything like shame.

Because lust is shameless.

 _Dragged_ deep and it is perhaps not half but a _very_ generous indulgence; gasped down with tongue wheeling up for more, more, more, the briny serums the _vestiges_ still dribbling from that plump bloated helmeted head.

"A-Ayumi, y-you-" Mitsuhiko's incredulity.

"Damn. That was _nice_." And Genta's simple _candor_. "That was sweet, Ayumi."

"Jeebus, Mitsuhiko. How _long_ have you been backed up-"

"I couldn't _help_ it! I- I just... Genta won't let me _come_ when he's gone-"

"I said I wouldn't let you come _this_ week because you begged me to make you stop coming all the time. Damn, Mitsu- _tan_." A palm like an alopeciac bear's paw _clapped_ on a soft lush pallid thigh. "So, y'know, we played that game or whatever."

"I- I couldn't stop touching myself last night. It was s-so wild and... And I kept using the plug I made from _you_ , Genta-"

"So you're all ready there?" Ravening. Imploring. Genta's bulk _soaring_.

"U-uh-huh-"

"You two are just the _deliciousest_ , y'know? I've just had an epiphany, though. Well, not _just_. A vision; really. I am now a seer. Or something. Goddess- _chan_ 's wisdoms have caressed me; have _stitched_ themselves into my soul." Beholding them in quirking brows.

"Dude, really? What kinda... Epiphany?" Genta's heavy, knitting together.

"Oh, you're still on that religious kick, huh, Ayumi?" And Mitsuhiko's, assiduously manicured, a _womanly_ elegance.

"It's not a _religious kick_ , y'damn heathen-"

"See?" It's something, oh, _reflexive_. Muscle-memory in its denialism; its materialist fundamentalism that dares never call itself _faith_. "You're always like that-"

"I just... I knew it; _suddenly_ , I knew it. Goddess- _chan_ came to me; _touched_ me. Deeply. I've been... Mmm... You can feel it, right?" With teeth fine sharp _brutal_ settling around my lower lip; a wisdom, a somatic profundity, in the flesh.

In the warmth.

In the _perfume_.

"A-ah, well..." And there are eyes; Mitsuhiko's.

Genta's.

Rich lathering _heaving_ with lust.

"It's _here_ ; it's begun to... To _blossom_ in my breast." With one of Mitsuhiko's wrists _seized_ ; with a palm planted in my left breast.

In the flesh, yielding, dimpling, _surrendering_ with the fingers' soft strain.

"A-ah, Ayumi-"

"Whoa, dude, are they as soft as they look-"

"You two've _both_ fucked me. Don't be silly, Genta- _tan_." A glance that commands that sainted esteem.

 _Sidelong_.

Throbbing raw _pluming_ with lust.

Steeping steaming convulsive.

"A-ah, I know, but, y'know... That was awhile ago-"

"They're even softer." Awe.

Delirium.

Mitsuhiko's voice a thick sticky _clot_ in the throat, straining up through the lips with a heavy hot tremor.

"W-wow... They're... They're so nice; and... You smell that, right, Gen- _tan_?" Dreamy; a dazed tongue-numbed thrall. "It's... Is that perfume, Ayumi?"

" _Something_ like it; it's _my_ scent-"

"I really like. So, ah, what brand-"

"It's _mine_ ; concentrated distilled _eau d'Ayumi_."

"Damn. That sounds expensive. Wha?" Genta's eyes huge. Ridiculous. "What'd I say?"

"'s _nothing_ , Gen- _tan_." And there is a kiss; Mitsuhiko's lissome elegances twisting falling down down down with fingers outstretched searching _beseeching_. "Kiss, kiss, _kissy_." Cooing garrulous lust-drunk. "I, ah...

"Hey, _Gen-tan_?"

"Yeah, Mitsu- _tan_?" They're the adorable personified; a glimpse of puppies in their untroubled Edenesque cavort.

It is a paradisaical thrall; it is a strange grotto wrought not in shadow or light but its unpretentious _gradation_ , its nuance in reality and not absolutes.

"I, ah... Why're you here, Ayumi?" Mitsuhiko's voice a shivering little sigh from dewy soft lips, slim warmth cradled against a chest that could probably ferment fine whiskey.

Or cheap rotgut.

In industrial effusion.

"Mmm? _Moi_? 's 'cause I thought I'd invite myself up. For a bit of unadon. Or something a little more, oh, _satisfying_. Rewarding. My appetites are, ah, _also_ very protein-intensive."

There is a _damn_.

Soft.

Flowering from Genta's large sumptuous lips; they are a woman's lips simply writ _humongous_ , ruddy and succulent and a quality like a Caravaggio serving-boy, sensuous and languorous. An invitation to a kiss.

And Mitsuhiko's eyes are more than _humongous_ ; feminine, huge-lashed.

Ah.

Ah.

Is that a bit of mascara? More than a bit.

"Aren't you just so _adorable_ , Mitsuhiko? Look at those eyes. They're prettier than your sister's, I think, Mitsuhiko-"

"W-ah? Ah, you saw Asami-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. I _fucked_ Asami- _tan_ an' her lil' boy-girlfriend. Or maybe girl-boyfriend. Whichever. Have you met her?"

"Ah... Y-yeah-" Unease; an _intensity_ in the eyes, a heat that percolates through the alabaster flesh in raking roseate fingers.

"I wonder if there's something, oh, _familial_ ; maybe a fetish." The smile a wolf's, bristling with sharp brutal creamy fangs, steam wafting up with hot hungers.

"Oh, totally. She's got a serious brother-complex." Genta's guilelessness is perfection. "I mean, c'mon, dude-"

"Genta, do you _hafta_ say that? It's a little creepy." Mitsuhiko's remonstration is something as persuasive as a shark's overtures to a seal.

What?

Oh, these fangs?

No, no, darling, they're only to _dimple_ your soft skin.

These eyes?

My beloved, they cannot entertain even _one_ lie.

These fins? Only to speed me to your heart, my dahlink.

"Oh, c'mon, dude, 's so _obvious_ -"

"I don't wanna hear it." But there is a tremor rearing up through the spine.

"Well, she's _very_ sweet. You know, it _would_ be a bit of an... Ah, ah, a _very_ indirect kiss. Come, come, come here, Mitsu- _tan_." Fingers outstretched; nails _brushed_ with lililicious zeal at those creamy soft cheeks. "Ahn! Your skin, Mitsu- _tan_.

"It's softer than a _girl_ 's."

"It's all the facials I give him." It is Genta's matter-of-fact perfection that must be lauded, you understand.

"Oh, _really_? Filled with protein, I guess. I'd love watching _many_ men queue up to smear their lust on your face, Mitsu- _tan_. It would be beautiful. Of course, of course, the pride of place is for Genta. But still, still, wouldn't you just _love_ it?"

To creep closer.

Eased up on the table and with thighs wound 'round the fine slim _girlish_ hips. Palms clamped on the sleek chest that is not muscle's denial but only its self-conscious diminution.

It is denuded.

Soft.

Lovely.

"A-ah, it's..."

"Sounds _great_." And there can be no real _jealousy_ cradled between Genta's ears. "Wow. I think we should do that. Have a great big bukkake for you, Mitsu- _tan_ -"

"S-stop it." Whimpering, _mewling_. With inferno flaring up to the ears' fine peaks.

"Oh, _sure_ , Mitsu- _tan_. I'd be the mistress of ceremonies. What do you think? Some nice lingerie and black heels and tails and a tophat? Oh, oh, a _cane_! I'd tell the boyz when they can spurt it _aaaaallll_ over you." Palms brushed down down down along the fine chest; up again to _taste_ the inferno flowering through the cheeks.

"D-damn-"

"And feel _this_." And now, well, why not simply toss away subtlety?

Meaningless flotsam.

Jetsam.

Fingers laced around Mitsuhiko; the elemental _candor_ flaring bloating up between the slim girly thighs.

"A-ah... Ayumi-"

"Damn. That's _so_ hot." With Genta, well, it is not to tuck itself into those tiresome absolutes.

Those compartmentalized prepackaged bits of belonging.

Homo?

Straight?

Bi?

He is laudable in his _animal_ essence; he is a perfection that is perhaps not woman, no, no, _no_ , but unperturbed with the cruel raking _nothing_ in our deepest collective terror.

Judgment.

Not our loved ones'.

Not our relations'.

Not our friends'.

Not our _anythings_ '.

But the cold flat anonymous eyes reptilian in their senseless interchangeable _nothing_.

We recoil.

We shudder.

Ah, ah, _ah_ , what will be thought of us? The unknown, you understand; as meaningless as the moon's dark face; as trivial as a sparrow's fart sputtering silent through an unfelt morning chill. But it is the _potential_ in this.

Their judgment their sensibilities their _meaning_ to you is not known.

Not domesticated.

Genta does not care.

 _I_ do not care.

"Oh, Mitsu- _tan_ , I thought I'd invite myself to breakfast. An' bring something to _your_ table, too." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; lips stain his cheeks in gloss rejuvenated with the lilac maiden's own. Soft and dappling and lambent on his creamy skin.

 _Adorn_ him.

Tongue flitting out to _taste_ the sweat in its fine shimmering streaks.

"Oh, _damn_." Genta's eyes dull glazed _quivering_ with a crude hammering bestial hunger. "Y'really _do_ look like two girls like that, Mitsu- _tan_. You're both so so _so_ hot." And it is with his fingers _spearing_ into my thighs.

Mine twist into his hair.

"Ahn... A-Ayumi-"

"I want you two, you know." Voice articulated breath, steeping _steaming_ urgent in its serpentine passage from my lips. "I've been wondering about it _eeeever_ since you two, um... Well, y'didn't _come out_. Since you started living together. Such a _cuuuute_ couple. You really are. I wondered if you, ah, had _veeery_ hard boundaries-"

"Dude, no way." Genta's, well...

It's something unpretentious.

Fingers groping with a belt; the taut jeans shrugged off in an instant and there is strength and, well, all is not merely in proportion but _very_ generous, flattering. It is thick and straining and not perking up but only bloated with a native fundamental hunger a _levitation_ in the blood's huge rearing pulse.

It can be _tasted_ in the air's stirring displacement; a warmth barely broken with a ceiling fan's long slow languid _whomp_ through the stillness. It is his heavy gnarled muscle; it is the steep slitting furrowing scars and pits and imperfections. It is the _sternness_ that almost beggars belief; it is strength layered upon strength upon strength.

It is the biceps that invite; it is the fingers slipped beneath the shirt's taut straining hem and the creamy fabric is pulled up. Up. Up.

It is Herculean. It is something more than merely _tanned_ ; it is Narcissus' sublimity grafted into Herakles. It is Twelve Trials conquered and pleading for more. It is a woman's proportions bloated beyond anything womanly; it is the inverted convergent triangles that would be _hourglass_ with curvaceous hips and heavy tits.

It is sublimity in squared pectorals and a convex strength in the belly.

Ah.

Ah.

It is Mitsuhiko's body _flaring_ with a candor that is not merely the flesh but the passion and the spirit, also.

"We love to play, Ayumi." Genta's admonition something meaningless.

This is obvious.

"We have people over _all_ the time. But, um, we talk about you sometimes. You're even prettier than high school. You look, y'know, 's... How didja say it, Mitsu- _tan_?"

"You look _timeless_ ; like a goddess. Ageless." Mitsuhiko's voice a brittle little _wheeze_ ; a meltdown frenzy that would curtain Asia in fallout to inflame generations with that crazed clutching sexual _madness_ that is my bequest.

My _gift_ to the throng.

"Well, isn't _that_ flattering? Would, ah, you two care to play with me, then?" With _my_ fingers twisting away the top's clutching sweat-dampened fragrant fabric; with the skirt shrugged off. There is no patience now.

A wish only for high high heels.

"I, um, I kinda... I wanna wear something special for it." Ah, ah, ah, the womanly _clamoring_ inflaming him. "You two can start. I- I think Genta should get off once or twice, anyway, before we _really_ start.

"Sometimes, it only takes him a few minutes-"

"From _you_ , Mitsu- _tan_?" Wounded.

Oh, yes.

A spear would crumple against that chest.

"I- I wasn't being _mean_. I just- I wanna wear something pretty for you two." Mitsuhiko quick on his toes, wheeling, twisting. Giddy and manic. "Hey, um, we have the same size feet, right, Ayumi?"

It's true, isn't it?

"Do you want some shoes? I- I really love it. T-that way, I mean." It's fetishery, isn't it? His sister's, also.

"Sure." How can I not? "Come here, Gentaaaa- _tan_." Arms outstretched; imploring, thighs slipped apart and it is to _drown_ in your own craving.

Imploring him.

Ah, ah, this metabolic defect.

This _plea_ for boy-flesh.

"Ngn... W-wow, Ayumi, you're all- all _naked_. 'cept stockings. I love that." Self-evidently; Genta's socks sloughed off with a lazy stripping stroke and now, now, it is flesh upon flesh. His palms cradled on my belly and perhaps there is a...

A _deeper_ allure in the homo-boy.

In femininity simply _admitted_.

Achingly elegant; fingers splayed open and creeping around hips _laced_ around my waist.

Pulled closer.

"I am."

"You're- you don't even have any _hair_ there." With incredulity; with awe.

"Neither do you or Mitsuhiko."

"Um, yeah." Kiss him.

Kiss him, because there is an enchantment with the strength.

The prettiness and the crude masculinity, also.

The body _slapped_ smeared with our mutual sweat against mine.

Cradled.

A toy.

A hunger.

"Fuck me." I am become hunger. "G-goddess, just _fuck_ me. D-don't bother with any foreplay-"

"I wanna _eat_ you. All- all hungry an' junk." Ah, ah, ah.

To admonish.

 _Tease_.

A fingertip swatted at his nose.

Masculine.

 _Everything_ is.

'cept when it's not. Unperturbed and enchanting juxtaposition.

"W-well, I _guessssss_ I can be persuaded. If I get to eat, too-"

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." Not lifted; merely _plucked_. "Hey, do you wanna play a game I _love_ with Mitsu- _tan_?" Such _exuberance_.

"Oh, I can't _wait_." How could anyone? It is to know strength in its immensity; it is to be dwarfed in the heavy chest the colossal biceps the triceps the _whateverceps_ in their convolutions rippling thick sinewy hard hot hot hot inflamed with a carnal madness that knows nothing like patience or gradation or nuance or delicacy. It is full-throated full-throttle it is a heaving rocket-fuel sexual psychosis.

"W-what're you doing, Genta-"

"Didn't you say you wanted to play the game?" It's...

It's _twisting_.

Wheeling; to know in an instant reality's inversion your hair swept from its familiar surrender to gravity over your shoulders now and what _was_ upright is now very much not. Toes quivering straining through the stockings' fabric understanding the universe from any politician's perspective.

"Ah? Don't you like it? I- I can lift almost three hundred kilos; you're _safe_. Mitsu- _tan_ loves it." Clearly, clearly, and it's to know that you _are_ nothing like even a burden. Not even a tiny one. The muscle is stern and firm and unflinching; that colossal swollen _thing_ flares up a great arcing Loch Ness Monster silhouette ruddy and trembling and _beseeching_ importuning demanding.

It does not only clamor.

Toes wriggle; his thighs are thicker more stalwart than a sequoia grove. The fingers bite with a dazzling gentleness into hips. There's a delirium a bleary lightheaded haze in blood's relentless settling surrender to Gaea's embrace.

"W-wah, Genta, 's-"

"Do you wanna stop-"

"Fuck, no. I- I've never been with anyone strong enough to d-doooo..." Whatever. Whatever. With thighs garlanding his shoulders his cheeks cradled clutched embraced with a madness a convulsion gathering in the belly and now, now, it's with an awareness of the muscle's graceful ripple with every dip every convolution every _twist_.

Burying himself now against _that_ ; it has become something almost masculine, a supreme supersaturated awareness. A hunger pulsating throbbing _humongous_ and it's more than a kiss. It's to bury yourself in a meal.

Frenzied.

 _Implosive_.

It's not merely the tongue not simply the Caravaggio lips the sumptuous sensualities by Gentileschi, also. It's eeeeverything at once; it's the mouth splaying _me_ ; it's the perpendicular kiss, ravening and relentless and merciless and it's an urgent sudden wet violent _spatter_ in lust in craving. It's his kiss, kiss, kiss, a sumptuous and unpretentiously selflessly selfish thing and it's not a command for anything but...

But _this_.

"C-coming... D-dammit, Gen- _tan_ , c-coming!" Silence while you're not tempest-tossed; nothing so fucking _sentimental_. It's curling toes and straining quaking thighs and muscle becomes gelatin coheres into iron crushing _crunching_ around him and it's with tongue lolling out a kiss kiss kiss it's _his_ body, also, to be savored. Fingers grope and clutch at that monstrous thing and it's finally _pulled_ and what delirium with delectation _that_ is in its reward.

A growl; a snapping animal snarl that simply _wends_ itself deeper deeper deeper teasing between the lips that're splayed open with a tongue like a Labrador's plunging impaling laving flitting a mad maniacal thing and its every inch is a bass string _ravaged_ with a serenade in 747s plucked from mid-flight.

It is to harness the _Challenger_ and every atomic bomb at once; it is to know something more explosive than a mere _explosion_. Oxygen snatched up in its wicked ragged serrated talons and inflamed stirred twisted tormented brutalized 'til even your lungs aren't only aflame but you're belching brimstone and a tongue's flitting flailing out he's being _dragged_ between lips sticky with the juices that flower up from the heavy helmeted head.

"D-damn, Ayumi, Ayumi, feels so _good_. Y-your mouth feels so good-"

"Better than Mitsu- _tan_?" Cooing garrulous insane; curtained in hair, both of us, the tendrils drooling down to the tatami's heavy satin texture. The universe is as blood; it throbs with the body's every urgent angry pounding beat a pummeling cadence like sledgehammers on timpani.

"Ngn... A-Ayumi, Ayumi-"

"I can taaake you deeper." Cooing singsong it isn't even competition but merely, oh, _pride_. It is to swallow and swallow and swallow and his is a will to _submerge_ himself. To vanish into those thick groping hot waters; it is to bleed together, Ouroboros, swallowing him while I am swallowed and it is being pulled closer closer closer the lips' frenzied suction simply _dragging_ him deeper and deeper and deeper and it is to know the palate's hot protests the throat _distending_ straining tormented.

A gasp; a wheeze.

Toes quiver.

"A-Ayumi, Ayumi, I- I'm... I'm gonna _come_ if you keep doing that!" And there is nothing to be said; nothing, nothing, nothing. Delirious lust-drunk convulsive with the huge ravening cables that snap and sputter electric down every nerve, that fasten their claws into the body and simply _tear_ and ravage and rip and I am riven open I am become lust personified it is to channel Goddess- _chan_ 's celestial essence.

Thicker, thicker, plumping burgeoning heaving _humongous_. The head's tugged pulled dragged into the whorling cyclonic heat that can only gather grow more more more and it's... It's to resist to reject the flesh's pleas of weakness, frailty. There _is_ no surrender when the first humongous leaden _clot_ spurts up up up rakes at the belly validates space travel's essence in the peristaltic spasms that simply _eat eat eat eat_ _ **eat**_.

There is no flavor; not even the tiniest ropy thread can aspire to drool down into the mouth.

Ah, ah, it is a lie.

It's _titanic_.

Vast gelid bulk shouldering away anything like resistance; cheeks straining with the heaps mounding up ricocheting back into my mouth and there are long syrupy threads creamy pallid _pungent_ with him with a man's essence of ammonia and bleach through the nostrils.

Tarnished with him.

Heaving.

Groaning.

And it is to be righted.

"I- it wasn't too much, right?" With awe glazing the eyes; and mine, also, a sense of madness, a recrimination against the last few sticky clots that wilt down down down distend _slop_ from the cock's colossal bloated bulk.

Fingers clamped on my lips.

It is a swallow.

A _gulp_.

Something legendary.

"W-why the hell'd you _stop_ , Genta-"

"'cause it sounded like you were choking. M-Mitsu- _tan_ doesn't usually try ta go _that_ deep. Y-you almost had _everything_ down-"

"And it was _very_ nice." With another huge urgent gasp; another struggle; another strain. It's an ambition to heaving a tank through a mouse hole. "H-holy _fuck_ , your cock's gigantic."

"It's not that big-"

"Oh, yeah, it is." Cradled now in lacing imploring fingers; and it's not only to know the weight but its fundamental animal bulk. "It's fuckin' _massive_. And, dahlink, dahlink, it's not even softening a _little_." It is a sense of the superstitious.

That he is life that has never tasted language in its every shackling vicissitude.

To reject a word is not for it to have been banished from the mind; and even then, even then, it is something imperishable. An inkling a blood-poisoning that is immunity's essence. It is still known; its corruption is there. Its very possibility is _there_.

But he is an innocent. It is flesh unravaged with the pox and plague.

This wickedness named refractory period.

"'s fucking _incredible_ , Genta. You know, it's even _bigger_ than it was before. Every. Part. Of. You." A fingertip bladed and _jabbed_ into the ribs that're more a slab you'd expect from some grandiose feral feast, not a restaurant but a great god-king whose meal is celestial bulls taken raw slathered with sauce wrought from their own blood.

I am with Vlad Ţepeş while he feasts upon blood and flesh and boy-meat, also.

Taste, taste, brush fingers along the heavy quavering tendrils like some demented clotted-lust mustache from lips; slather them with the tongue's questing hunger.

"Ah, ah, you're... _Soooo_ fuckin' bitter. Whoa." Not recoiling in revulsion; only _awed_ with it. "'s so- so _musky_. Masculine, y'know, daddy-o? Y'dig?"

"You taste like- like- wow, I dunno _what_ ya taste like, Ayumi. But it's _so_ good."

"Ambrosia?"

"Wazzat?" It's guileless, exuberant. A plea for erudition in the flesh.

"Ngn... It's the nectar of the gods, y'know. I bleed ichor and weep ambrosia." Drag his vast hand down, down. "You're _incredible_ , y'know? I really don't like _boyz_ , but you and Mitsuhiko are just... So delicious.

"But Mitsuhiko really ain't a _boy_."

"You're so cute, you know, Ayumi?"

"D'ya think so?" Cavorting, vamping. Lifted; a dancer's elegance. " _Ah_! Genta. That- that feels fucking _incredible_ -"

"Y'love it when I lift ya, huh? You're so cute, Ayumi. You really really are. And so pretty. Even prettier than Ran; even _sexier_ than Ran."

"And that's _quite_ the tribute, you know." Wheel and twist and it's to know a sumptuous and supreme _weightlessness_ ; it is diving diving diving surpassing gravity's very dimensions.

Rearing up beyond escape velocity.

Soaring in his arms. Fingers cradle the stubble-littered cheeks; slip up up up along the jaw's heavy thick convolutions.

"I _know_ how much ya've got a crush on Ran- _tan_ -"

"She's too... Much for me. An' Mitsuhiko. He has to say _yes_ ; so do I."

"Really? So, ah, y'two have said _yes_ about me before, huh?" Mincing, swaying. A glance down into those vast dark puddles.

"Uh-huh. We both had the biggest crushes-"

"Oh, I _neeever_ noticed. What about Ran?"

"She's _weird_ , too. Maybe that's it. An', y'know, she plays _way_ too rough. Heiji- _niichan_ said she gave him bruises that lasted for _months_ ; Kazuha- _neechan_ , too."

"Well, can you be _that_ surprised?"

"I don't wanna get bruises. 'sides, y'know, I think... Mitsuhiko an' me are really getting closer now." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Not homo not straight not anything but _this_.

Flesh and fervor and hunger.

Sturm und drang rattling through the blood.

"Reaaally? That's so cute. Gonna go off ta Disneyland and have a wedding with Cinderella?"

"Maybe." It's so fucking _guileless_. "Wouldja come?"

"'course. I've always been more of a _Winnie The Pooh_ girl, but, ah, I can swing some Cinderella. Ooh! Ooh! What about having Jasmine officiate? Now _I_ could get behind that. Or under. Whichever-"

"Ah, ah... A-Ayumi." Because it is to be _craned_ ; twisted; strained. Your body a rippling grace; a dolphin snatched up in a polar bear's hungering ravening talons.

Jaws lips _fangs_ settling around his throat.

"Still gonna swing like this when you're all respectable?"

"D-damn, you're..." A _nip_ ; sharp and brutal. "Wah! D-did you-"

"Draw blood? Uh- _huuuuh_. Everybody needs a pre-wedding blood taste. I pronounce you clean and healthy and _delicious_." Sharp tang on the tongue; rolling out to greet him with a faint little smear in carnation jumbled with cream. "Every part of you."

"Damn, you're crazy-"

"Crazy's sexy."

"It is-"

"Heeey, you two haven't forgotten about me, have you?" It's... Well, ah, ah, it could only be _mincing_. A delicious grace; hips suggested more than authentic and still oh so adorable, cradled in gauzy fragile curtains in obsidian and garnet.

It is the quintessential painted-woman sublimity; it is a will to wilt to falter to heave yourself not to your knees but to your belly; to become the human caterpillar a pathetic gastropod life who will _crave_ their approval. Mitsuhiko is simply _beautiful_.

Eyes humongous, quivering; they are now not merely large but _colossal_ , wreathed in lashes inky heavy _thick_ in a great negative sunburst around the eyes in their immense lust-disturbed black ponds. He is beautiful, isn't he? He? She? Whichever. It is a meaningless thing, this absolute.

They are not quite _boyz_. Oh, no, no, no. One has surmounted that rarefied peak to something like manhood; the other is... Delicious. The long long legs draped in fabric shimmering effulgent in the sunlight sloshing spurting slopping now through the broad window that overlooks their building's charming courtyard, and the stockings are stardust coiling through moonless midnight.

The lips shimmer with gloss; the belly is tight and dusted in some faint powdery mist, cream upon alabaster, that's the essence of marshmallow. This is the perfume. Ah, ah, this delectable marshmallow divinity.

The chest is firm and not Asami- _tan_ 's paramour's in its sensual promise its alchemical ambitions but simply _flat_. Absolutely flat.

"Ah, ah, ah, you have the _tiniest_ little titties, haven't you, Mitsu- _chiii_? Why, you'd almost think there's _nothin_ ' there at all. Ah, what cup size? Could you even have one? Maybe one of those strange wingding characters on the keyboard-"

"Oh, don't be _mean_ to me, Ayumi. You have enough tits for twenty-"

"Wish I could give you some. Just _lend_ 'em, y'see. Or maybe to Haibara. Ah, ah, we had quite the _delicious_ morning yesterday. I think it was yesterday. Oh, I'm just dwelling in the most _delectable_ drunk; I am high high _hiiigh_.

"More than eight miles, I think." Eased down, down, and it is to sway to mince to wheel and writhe and to know the disparities in height and still, still, how _delicious_ the beauty is rearing up in high high _high_ heels a theatrical grace in lambent thongs leather glinting like a lacquered raven's wings twisting coiling serpentine around the slender calves, up up up.

A _very_ firm purchase; a convenience for six-inch heels.

Kiss.

Kiss.

With Genta a convivial diablerie poised behind you.

"He was _veeery_ backed up, y'know, Mitsu- _chi_ -"

"You're so _mean_." Coo and giggle and it _is_ an authentic giggle. "A-ahn..." And an _ahn_ ; head thrown back flung the hair _tossed_ in its auburn enormity, brushed and dampened to a lambent twinkling perfection.

Fingers _twisted_ around him.

"You're just so _tiny_ next to Genta; almost like a little girl-"

"I- I... I _am_ his little girl, y'know?" Eyes cast up at mine and the liner is perfect; they're shadowed in a heavy gray smoke and there is a sumptuous lavish allure in this.

"I'm not _anyone's_ girl; an' very happy." It is true; it is a bliss in liberation, and not poised snarling and ostentatious in its defiance against _this_ captivity in silken soft cages. "But I just... I just had the most _urgent_ craving for boy fuck-meat. Do you have any? 'cause I have just been _desperately_ starved." Kiss; and kiss; and it is now not merely Mitsuhiko not _only_ Genta.

Both of them; dragged closer, closer.

Their heights meaningless; their strength triviality.

All surrender before Aphrodite.

Before Goddess- _chan_ , whose long fine fingers are laced around Aphrodite's throat, whose stroke is a squeeze a clench a grope a grasp a _clasp_.

Stroking.

Slowly; oh so achingly _slowly_ and it is to know sweat in its gradations its fine dappled mist on Mitsuhiko's brow and _swarming_ Genta's face. It is to know their lips; their mouths. Fall into arms; theirs, theirs, at once.

It is not a porno banality; it is not shuddering with anger with homo animus against mommy with the ravenous gangbang idiocy, gardens of cocks for the audience's sublimated cravings with a bit of feminine flesh as reassurance. Uh-uh- _uh_. It is to know not a sumptuous tyranny in their quiescence, either.

It is a mutual surrender. Goddess- _chan_ 's spirit animates; it is also supreme. I am of and still not not not _quiiite_ that ideal. Ah, ah, but the junk shudders boils pulsates _reanimates_ revivifies itself. It is impossible, but here we are, and it is a heroin madness a supersaturated sensitivity unfurling with feathering angels' wings through every _inch_.

Not quite borne aloft but simply settling down on the sofa with them; it is flesh and flesh and Mitsuhiko's fingers quake the heels cradled still _there_. The stilettos brush a knee.

"A-ah, didn't- didn't you want to wear these, Ayumi?" His eyes enormous; an ambition to the limpid but it is a fragile ice sheet slathering _everything_.

"Ah, they're _gorgeous_." And they are. But not _quite_ so ornate as his.

Quite the competitive flair.

But they are lovely; irresistible.

Dipping down, down, still seated, knowing their fingers clutching stroking; the disparities in dimension; the gradations in heat; the _texture_ and complexion.

Genta's huge thick charred-auburn hands on my left knee; Mitsuhiko's creamy soft feminine delicacy brushed over my right breast. The nipple's stroked, adored.

A gasp shivers up from lips shimmering with lililicious glosses.

A tremor.

And it is to dip down down down.

"A-ahn... You two, you're just... You're driving me _mad_ , I think." We are all become madness. Oh, yes, yes, yes. One stockinged foot _slipped_ into a shoe; and then another. Taut nurse-slut sublimity; creamy pallor and heavy groaning patent-leather bands to be fastened around the ankles.

"It's obvious what games _you_ two play when Genta has a little injury from the job-"

"Nya. Don't be _meaaan_ , Ayumi." With a _nya_ from Mitsuhiko.

" _Nya_. And I can't call you Mitsu- _chi_ -"

"I call him Mi- _chi_." Genta's murmur's dreamy and demented; the lids heavy and the lips trembling.

"Ah- Genta, y'didn't need to tell Ayumi _that_ -" Trembling quavering a ridiculous perfunctory bit of shame. Shame. Shame; moronic; flinching; _recoiling_ from an elemental truth.

It is the will that reality should be as the consensus announces, and not as it is.

"Why, dude? It's true. And you're so _cute_." Adoration; and it is to be their passion's canvas, Genta not quite _wilting_ but Mi- _chi_ very comfortably draped over my chest to be captured in his great sumptuous Caravaggio lips.

"I think 's adorable, Mi- _chi_. Mi- _chi_ an' Ayu- _chi_. Can ya dig it?"

"I can dig it." Genta's at least in this _universe_ ; playful boisterous. "I can dig it. I don't know what it means, but I can _do_ that."

"Gooooood _boy_." Rewarded with a kiss; with hands upraised to clap palms on his cheeks. His immense mountainous jaw. "Ah, you're both so fuckin' _delicious_. Mmm... Y'know, I was thinking about the geometry. How we should _do_ this.

"And I still don't know. I just want you two. Genta, you're so _strong_ ; you could probably hold _both_ of us aloft, couldn't ya?" Cooing; writhing; _clambering_ onto his lap and it's straddling a bull's great girth; it's to know something as fucking _colossal_ as a bull's hot urgent hunger _ground_ against my ass twisting through the plump flesh clasped against my spine.

Swallowed in him; swallowing him.

"Ah, you make me kinda jealous, you know, Ayumi-" Is it possible for jealousy to flare in Mitsu- _chi_ 's heart when there's only a will to adore _both_ of them?

"Ayu- _chi_. 's what you should call me, Mi- _chi_." A glance; that bubbling hot bliss named _sidelong_. There is still flesh straining pricking perking up huge and clamoring in _his_ hand. "I don't want ya to be _jealous_.

"After all, you two, ah, your hearts are stitched with a red-hot thread. I just wanna bit of the blood and the boy-meat. I'm just taking advantage; imposing on a friend. C'mon. C'mon. I want you two _inside_ me.

"I had the most _fantastic_ night. Ngn... I met Wormwood and this _delicious_ Wembacratic divinity who had skin like starless night smeared with olive oil and they _both_ fucked me; pushed their big big _big_ toys into my pussy 'til I almost _broke_.

"Was so delicious. And _so_ many other girls and their Lizzie hungers. They need to taste the poison, y'see." It is to speak a language that lurks in an intellectual borderland; it is to know that they dwell _close_ , but the feet will never transgress that boundary.

No Checkpoint Charlie runners.

"Ah, wha?" Genta's befuddlement is lovely.

And Mi- _chi_ still hasn't forgotten the pride in play-pretend omniscience; there is silence and not ignorance admitted.

"Ah, it's... You really did? I... I'm kinda jealous." But it is to taste the _heat_ gathering behind you; a soft heady delicious nimbus in Mitsu- _chi_ 's _aura_. "I kind of... I'm sorta-kinda on the fence. Not like Asami's girlfriend-"

"I told Mi- _chi_ it's all cool with me. I like sexy boys an' sexy girls. Whatever. I just- I wanna _play_." Genta's eyes huge and drowsy with lust. "Oh, oh, _'s_ so good. Your body feels so good, Ayumi; you're so pretty.

"I like your hair black like this. I always liked Japanese girls the best."

"Even when I _don't_ have the Japanese body-"

"What can I say? I always liked big-booby girls, too." So simple. Perfectly deliciously simple. With Mi- _chi_ 's flesh brushed now against Genta's. "A-ah, ah, Mi- _chi_ , your cock's so _nice_."

"So's yours. But, um, you can really do _two_ there, Ayu- _chi_?" And we have now reconciled ourselves with our new reality.

"Uh- _huh_. It feels _nice_. Genta's so fuckin' _big_. I think it'd feel like getting fucked by an elephant-"

"Mi- _chi_ can take me an' a toy he made outta me there."

Whoa.

Whoa.

 _Whoa_.

A _heat_ in Mi- _chi_ 's cheeks.

Twist around and gawp with incredulity.

"D-double _anal_ with that? Seriously? You're even crazier than _I_ am, y'know, Mi- _chi_ -"

"I- I was so drunk-"

"I'm stoned off my ass. What's it matter? Ngn... I'm starting to get _competitive_. But, ah, I dunno... I think I want, ah... Let. Me. See. I'm all clean an' pretty, Mi- _chi_. So I'm gonna start... And you do whatever you want.

"Whatever." Rear up and up and up and it isn't even tyranny so much as just _will_. Agency, y'know.

And it's falling down, down; it's Mi- _chi_ 's fingers to aid to urge to slip around Genta and it's for that colossal bulk to be poised aloft. Braced against lips hungering and beseeching and...

And it's incredible.

 _Splitting_ me apart.

Straddling a fucking Coca-Cola can.

Ah.

Ah.

"Y-you're _too_ damn big, Genta- _tan_. 's even _better_ than I remember." Wailing howling falling down down down and it isn't sobriety ain't anything so trivial just... Just nerves _torn_ apart flayed open and bared and kneaded with the most delirious supersaturated _essence_ distilled from desire from lust and it's impaling tearing _spearing_ through me.

Filled.

Overstuffed.

The thick lush head a battering ram against my cervix.

"Wah... Ah... Ah, oh, oh, _fuck_!" A _howl_ ; a very very legitimate howl.

"'s kinda good everybody else is at work. People whine about noise an' stuff." With Genta's lips scribing a melody _very_ apart from the eyes in absentminded musing.

 _Who cares?_

Glazed.

Trembling.

It's fucking _enormous_.

"A-ah, Ayu- _chi_ , you're _so_ tight. You're drivin' me crazy. A-already. You're... Ah..." Snarling; snapping; palms find purchase on hips and it's to be pulled, tugged. Rise and fall and rise and fall and it's an intuitive rhythm.

Not jealousy; not envy; Mi- _chi_ 's lips and tongue stroking jabbing _stabbing_ against him worming slithering deeper deeper deeper mouth clasped against _me_ and it's...

It's to know another gradation in perfection; a shimmering sharp chromium haze encrusts every nerve every sense glints twinkles shimmers teases tortures torments and it's yelping howling yowling crazed and...

And now, now, it's not only his mouth there, there, there, against Genta, swallowing slavering juices dragged from me and his spittle offered in return.

The soft murmurs.

 _Ah, ah, Ayu-chi, your pussy tastes so **nice**. So jealous._

But the mouth rearing up, up.

Fluttering flitting _swept_ across that pert hungry pucker, also. Jabbing into the flesh and it's... It's to be invaded; to surrender to _invite_ , also, the intrusion deeper and deeper and deeper and now, now, it's his mouth clamped against my ass his fine fine feminine fingers _splaying_ me.

And the tongue wriggles impales and fingers have joined it, also.

"A-ah, _haaaah_ , Mi- _chi_." Adore him; lavish Genta with a kiss, kiss, kiss. His mouth; his jaw; his _everything_. Neck nipped and adored and...

"D-damn, I feel your fingers through Ayu- _chi_ , Mi- _chi_. D-damn, damn, it feels so good. Damn. Damn. Damn." Pumping; quickening, quickening, hips upon hips with a wet spattering percussion. He is there; he is there.

 _They_ are there.

"I- I wanna try _two_ in my pussy before you're there, 'kay, Mi- _chi_?" How can I not? How can I not? Ah, ah, _ah_ , stayin' alive, even if it'll fucking _murder_ me.

"Y-you're sure, Ayu- _chi_? 'cause- 'cause I was _super_ -drunk an' Genta had been teasing me with toys an' stuff and... And we do it _rough_ -"

"I don't _caaaare_!"

"I seriously drank half a bottle of Grand Marnier."

"I don't _caaare_!" Melodious and singsong on my own ears. "I don't care. I want it. I want it. 'sides, there's enough junk still in me to be _more_ than enough. I'm..."

"Y-you're so _tight_. You're gonna kill me if you try to stick it in, too, Mi- _chan_." Well, _fuck_ that, Genta.

"Ah, ah, _ahn_. I'm all nice an' loose, Genta. Don't be a _liar_." With an ambition to danger.

As harrowing as a scowling duckling with tongue lolling from numb lips.

"A-ah, n-no fucking _way_ , you're so tight-"

"I- I wanna _try_." With Mi- _chi_ there. There. There. It's... It's more a sense of gorging yourself on another platter of crêpes when you've already had fifteen.

Approximately.

 _Brushed_ against him.

And against me.

"Nya... Y-your pussy's so pretty, Ayu- _chi_. I- I wish I could have it; I wish we could trade bodies for a bit." Ah, ah, what _perfection_ that would be. "Your pussy lips are so _tight_ ; they're so beautiful. I... I'm gonna try.

"It's-"

"Tiiiiiight! You're gonna break me, dude!" With Genta's voice a _bellow_ ; a harrowing sharp hot serenade.

"Boy meat's boy meat; who cares." Silence him with a kiss; with sweat-sodden frenzy. _Ground_ against them and it's not even an ambition to slackening 'cause, ah, well, what could it matter?

It's not fuckin' _possible_.

Straining through me.

Eyes heaving open.

There _is_ pain; sort of. Not at all. It's more an awareness that the body protests with a frenzied tooth-gnashing insanity while the native algolagnia the carnal fervor the boundary-battering madness deeper still can only _luxuriate_ wallow in it.

In the simple perfection in the body being overstuffed, overfed. Gorged and swallowing and choking down eeeeevery inch and it's...

It's to know Genta's lips drawn taut into a cruel seam _slashed_ in pallid perfect teeth across his face.

It's Mi- _chi_ 's intuited in the sharp heaving _hiss_ drawing dragging _inhaling_ sucking down the planet's oxygen condensing it into a core that trembles throbs like gelatin that becomes a fuel-air bomb that _blazes_ into a titanic mutual scream.

Shrieked from my lips; Genta's head tossed lolling over the sofa's back; Mi- _chi_ is- is _somewhere_. It's immense.

"M-Mi- _chiii_ , your cock's kissing _mine_."

"G-Genta, you're _this_ fucking big? I- I didn't... W-wha, wah, wah, what, it's... Ah... Ahn!" A squeal; a tremor.

An awareness of _them_.

The geometries twisted together; both heavy thick underbellies and the heads straining and it's delectable boy-meat eaten akimbo and it's to be broken open and adored and devoured and it's to know their explosive hungers. Genta's and Mi- _chi's_ at once and it's high high heels jabbed into Genta's thighs now it's rearing up and falling down, down, down, _dragging_ them into me.

Swallowing.

"A-ah! It- it feels so fucking _amazing_!" Stillness; to _move_ would be to entice some dreadful fate so it is _mine_. Mine mine mine; muscles clutching clenching something convulsive a collision that's almost meteorological.

Squeeze and strain around them; rising and fall now and it's a dance, slow and wriggle rippling knowing your _hips_ filled with them.

Both of them.

"Y-you're both in my pussy-"

"I can't take it anymore!" Mi- _chi_ 's voice an urgent huge quail you could really only call _harrowing_. Squealing now rearing up in pitch and...

"D-dude, you're... You're-"

"I can't take it! Kissing your cock with mine; feeling you, Ayu- _chi_. You're so tight! Y-you're- you're _strangling_ me!" Heat.

Heat.

Hotter than any mere _heat_.

An explosion; flaring up up up and it's something sticky slathering flowering _feathering_ out a velvet grace a heavy sticky gelid insanity and it's _spurting_ slipping with a capillary flourish around him, adorning Genta, smeared on _me_.

"W-ah, it's... I- I can't _stop_." A quick pump the hips' fitful stroke and it's to know your _own_ flesh grinding clenching closed around him, his cock simply _shot_ from me under its own pressure, with _mine_.

"W-wah. Oh. Oh, _fuck_." Mi- _chi_ 's adorable ass in its sweat-wet slap on the tatami. "D-damn, damn, _damn_ , that was so- so hot. Feeling your big cock in her; kissing _mine_." Crane, twist, peer down around know my own hips' convolutions the ass' _humongous_ overripe peach plume cum still dribbling sticky scalding pattering down over the floor, one or two droplets adorning his high high black heels in cream.

"Wah... You're so pretty, Ayu- _chi_. I- I'm..." It's _still_ upright; urgent and hungering and Genta's answer is something _convulsive_.

More than quickening; devastating hard hot cum-slathered strokes up up up down down down a humongous undulating cadence and it's delirious, delicious.

Head thrown back.

"P-pull my hair, Mi- _chi_. F-fuck my pussy again with Genta; fuck my _aasssss_ fuck my _something_. Need it need it I wanna be fuckin' _filled_ so justjustjustdoitc'monfuckingdoitdammit." Yes, yes, farewell to punctuation.

Grammar?

It's _melting_ from between my ears; sluicing over my shoulders with the pattering pummeling sweat with Genta's with mine dribbling over the floor, and, well, he's already slick with cum and it's just...

Just _planted_ there; slackened with the night and with Mi- _chi_ 's fingers and his tongue and it's...

It's incredible.

Their flesh _ground_ against one another's through that brittle meaningless sheath.

Warbling.

Heaving.

It is to bear down.

Rise up.

It is to be their passion's nexus; but it is not authorial self-annihilation, no, no, fucking _noooo_. It's convulsion it's spasm it's insanity it's hysteria it's histrionics it's to curtain yourself in sweat in lingerie in flesh in fervor in hair in everything and nothing at once.

There is nihil in this.

It is to taste the universe's end and its resurrection, also.

There is the spirit.

There is the soul denied, also.

Twist and wheel and now, now...

It's falling away from both of them and rejoicing in their reunion, their resurrection; planted on Mi- _chi_ 's lap and it's perspectives vantages twisting it's to know an immeasurably less grandiose strength a feminine willowy softness being responsible now for your own weight while legs are thrown up onto Genta's shoulders a glimpse of the Rockies in flesh.

Strain.

Heave.

 _Grind_ them into fuckin' paté.

Shiver and melt down and there's a faint nebulous awareness of movement; of the bodies in their great constellations wheeling and twisting; planted on your side heaved tempest-tossed between them again and again and again and it's...

It's conquest; they will be tyrannized _controlled_ dominated because they must must must _muuust_ be. A kiss and a kiss and there is heat.

Flaring up.

Flowering.

Again and again and again and 's no trivial stamina at _all_. Theirs is the junkie's fervor for one shot, and another, and another. And then you're ravenous again and it is to know the flesh cleaned and perfected and it is for Genta's and Mi- _chi_ 's mouths to settle _there_.

Levitating between them while fingers and tongues hunger while high high high heels bear you aloft to impossible height while they're _planted_ poised on Genta's heavy thick muscle and there is the simple need to impale to skewer to know them _forced_ into you.

Cum their mutual lusts, ah, ah, _torn_ tugged dragged out and down and drooling into their throats.

Swallowed.

Adored.

And there is an explosion; liquid thunder through the ears and the sun has more than risen now. It is to peer through the great pane while their bone has become gelatin, their muscle has become water.

Knelt around Mi- _chi_ 's cheeks and it is to rise and fall to writhe wriggle to _ride_ and it is fingers twisted into his lovely lovely lavish thick hair pulling tugging _jerking_ the mouth up to greet _mine_ in a succulent perpendicular kiss.

Adore him.

"A-ah, you're just... You're both so fucking _delicious_ , y'know? I think I'll need to invite myself over for breakfast or lunch or dinner or Eid or whatever _muuuch_ more often, dahlinks." While there is silence.

Groaning.

Conquest.

Orgasm, and orgasm, and orgasm. A marathon through a celestial minefield. It is to wheel and twist and traipse and now, now, it is the dancer's self-indulgent victory, hips rising and falling swaying undulating _writhing_ for them and without them, also.

While their lips settle together in a kiss unpretentious in its intimacy.

Ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, 'cause they've died and welded themselves to one another.

It is an inverted striptease; it is a grinding sawing insanity to silent rhythm in flesh and flesh while the clothing's slipped on on on.

Tug up the skirt and slip down the top and, well, ease it _juuust_ a bit up again.

And it is to know the perfume gathering; you are _anointed_ , steeping in their cum, in their lust, their desire. And yours.

Surpassing all else, it is to know the soft machinery's alchemy, twisting others' cravings into your vital bliss.

Step, step, step; slip into _my_ heels and the door is closed with a quiet serene lassitude.

And it is to know the city in its strange languorous midday rhythm; not a drowsy tranquility but not churning throbbing rattling like an overburdened jet-turbine in its overcompensating rush hour busyness. It is to savor shops and cafés in their convivial post-lunch yawn; it is to peer into groceries and know the prosaic bits of enterprise that are never glimpsed when pretenses must be upheld and preconceptions cosseted.

Shelves are restocked.

"Ah, Ayumi- _chan_!" An elderly lady in pinched heavily-lobed eyes and sun-charred skin and a quick convivial smile's cradling an apple.

Tucked into my hand.

"How've you been, Suzuki- _san_?" Peering at me in hunched repose over her shop's wares, produce in a sprawling heap. The apple's a heavy burgundy; the flesh shimmers with waxen elegance. "What about a mango?"

"Ah, you're always so _demanding_. Apples are good wholesome fruit."

"I know." But, well, how can I not? Eased back onto the cart; a mango tossed up and hefted in a palm. "But I'm not a good wholesome girl."

"Oh, you're just so _sweet_ , Ayumi- _chan_." Laughter creases the flesh and tightens other ridges; hers is a sharp-boned leanness, skin drawn tight around firm arms. A carnation tee-shirt melts into oversized jeans.

"How's Mister Suzuki?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. It's good to run a shop like this. We fight all the time. But not like my friends who had salaryman husbands. It's weird. They were never home; and now that they're retired and they are, they're just in the way.

"Suzuki- _san_ is much much better. I'm very happy. Do _you_ have a fella, Ayumi- _chan_?"

"Nah. I don't. Nor even a fellow or a feller. I don't have a lady or a gal or a moll, either."

"Oh, that's too bad. You're such a _beautiful_ young lady." Equanimity and grace. "And such a bright one, too."

"Thanks, Suzuki- _san_. Give Suzuki- _san_ my regards. And thank you for the mango."

"Well, I'll let it slide just _once_. I really gave you the apple-"

"But the apple's full of sin. No one ever got thrown out of a celestial garden for eating a mango. Don't hold me to that." Tossed with a languid ease; up and down and up and down and it is to wriggle writhe mambo shudder shiver.

Door eased open and Haibara is there.

Of course.

"Hey, Ai- _tan_. Care for a bit of mango?"

"Where the _hell_ have you been?"

"Somebody letcha in?"

"You did. You gave me a key, remember?" The brow quirked; the eyes mirthful. There's a giddy exuberance in the simple _being_. The lean long tight grace; the lips lush and ruby-glossed.

"Ah. Guess so." The water seethes; filth or its figments brushed away from the fruit's heavy leathered skin. The flesh shimmers gold under the light pouring through my windows. "It's delectable, huh?"

With the knife's slow _squelch_.

Its wet passage through the meat.

Fingers laved; the fruit adored and adulated with the tongue.

Sensual and delirious.

The body _vitalized_.

The soul enchanted.

"I saw Genta and Mitsuhiko, y'know." Sonorous pointillist bits of expressionist gossip; there's a half-understood awareness in the ears.

"Oh?" Haibra's smile slow, syrupy. Adorned with the mango's shimmering juices. "I, ah... I was looking into the, oh, _wares_ I made for you."

"Sublime entheogen."

"Well, it seems _not_. Aphrodisiac, _yes_. Entheogen? Less so. Doesn't have any of the hallucinatory characteristics you expect from an entheogen. It's just something to get you _wild_ and fucked up on lust." The words are a succulent bit of cognitivedissonance mantling up from her lips.

"Really?"

"Really. The Doc and I, ah... Well, suffice it to say, it's better than what Freud said about cocaine."

 _Ew_.

"Don't mention Freud and sex in the same _continent_ of language, please. Yuuuugh." Prolonged cartoonish gagging. "But, ah, nothin'?"

"From either of us. Oh, oh, don't misunderstand. That's just... It's _delirious_ ; I came so much I couldn't even remember my own name. I got him totally _wet_ ; drenched."

"Well, you've been learning from Ayu- _chi_ -"

"You're so _adorable_." Craning closer, closer. A sharp _gasp_ of a kiss; lips upon lips. "I just thought you might wanna know. I'll, ah, be..." There is still the familiar nerve-snapping neurosis. "I'll let you tell Vermouth, I think-"

"Oh, you shouldn't be so _terrified_ of Wormwood, y'know. I saw her earlier this morning. Or last night. Or whatever. It was _quite_ the delectable bit of Lizzie mayhem at some club. I never bothered to read which one.

"Just whichever. And Genta and Mitsuhiko. Whoa- _ho_. Fucking incredible. And Ran. And Asami-"

" _Whoa_." It is awe.

Astonishment.

"Are you tired, Ayumi? From, ah, all the partying?"

"Nah. Just... Hungry." And not for anything as prosaic as mere nourishment.

It isn't the belly.

Something more urgent.

More intense.

"S-so, ah, ah, I'll just... Get on making more. I'm _really_ sore gotta go bye-bye." Or something. The door _jerked_ open and rattling closed.

The wolf's hungers denied. Well, even the lamest antelope will slip away into the forest's heavy thickets, vanishing off into the gloom.

But there are still the fangs.

The padding paws.

And my luscious neighbor, of course.


	9. Who Are The Brain Police?

It is to kiss, hunger, swallow, savor, _slaver_. There is flavor in the negative spaces, you understand. Much much _much_ more than in the positive, in the _tangible_. It's to fasten your fingers around the darkness the shadow the convolutions the vicissitudes in the non-being, and to eat and eat and eat 'til there is only the light and it is to know the fundamental senselessness in that _being_. Being without non-being is nothing at all. It is to draw only in _lines_ ; it is for this definition these strokes swept cross-hatched into annihilation to surpass the non-boundaries that are so indispensable for this.

Peer up at the ceiling and know the dust's achingly elegant whorls and strokes and stripes and streaks. It is not lassitude; it is not anxiety. It is only _to be_. Ah, ah, this most... Most _human_ most _animal_ act, and it is cast away. It is _banished_.

The television's idiot cyclopean yammering has displaced this most elementary deed. This most quintessentially _uplifting_ indulgence. To be. To lurk in the silent stillness to steep in your own sweat not to know this society this culture in its huge wheeling _nothingnesses_ , its convulsions in events in humanity every one their own bullet the bulk simply ricocheting and scattering away untasted unfelt and in a few rarefied moments _converging_ explosive frenzied brutal.

It is to stare. To lie and stare and it is not even to sit and forget. Forget _what_? Ah, it's lovelier to _know_ , you understand. Simply to be; to lace together the fingers on your belly and savor the quietude the perfect untarnished silence steeping in a merciless swelter the room unstirred even with the fan's meager whisper. It is with windows heaved closed it is a sweat-lodge fanaticism an ear-numb fundamentalism.

Lie, and exist.

To be.

There is water in the sweat.

There is a tremor in the eyes.

The body protests; but it is a meaningless mastered thing, domesticated in the mind's sputtering algolagnias, its misfiring neurons and its clutching perfections without ambition because they have long since been consummated. Fingers _strain_ ; there is a hunger, huge and heaving. Not merely lurking between the thighs like a wolf huddled in the forest's gloom its great penumbra textureless and curtained in a sodden misty nothing, no, no, no. It is something convulsive; it spurts _sprays_ up. It is not the shark's fin scything through a cold still sea but a violent _crash_ ; it is water melting into a great broken mirror sharp twinkling shards cast away spiraling sprawling out out out into their extravagances in constellations shimmering a sublime.

It is here.

Suddenly, wickedly, _oppressively_ , it is here.

It is to know your own flesh's every vicissitude; at once, at once, it is a supreme somatic consciousness. It is not a mind _expanding_ ; it is not tuning in turning on and dropping out 'cause these catechisms have long since been spoken and not in protest not in fleeting teenage exuberance before you slip with chameleonic ease into the appropriate suits amongst your parents' ranks and what was once tasted will tumble away into comfortable numbing amnesia's dark waters.

There is nothing so _facile_ in this. It is not to wear the appropriate clothes because the reality is tattooed into your flesh with horimono extravagance. It is consciously to be set aside, because this is what you are; it is for the face to be stained with the prisoner's shame and odium. It is to announce this with pride and esteem and simple _exuberance_.

I am.

I am what I am. More than anything, _I am_.

The skin _scrawls_ with its sensitivities; with the awareness of the meteorological vicissitudes in your own breath. In the biologic transfiguration that total _stillness_ grants, because the flesh will dimple and throb and furrow with the blood's passage and even this is no longer something prosaic but an object of the sublime.

It is sensuality.

A word eternally abused. Not alone in the carnal. But all, ultimately, is of the flesh. Humanity's fervor is only for gradations in procreation or this most essential act instilled with meaning in our clamoring to know ourselves in sainted fictions as anything _but_ the animal. But, ah, ah, _that_ is the lie. That is the deepest the Biggest Lie of any.

It is not that our meaning pours from domesticating and denying the animal.

The meaning is in _being_ the animal.

In the chest's heave. In fingers splayed out over your belly; in knowing the fundamental power the _agency_ in being _you_. In yourself. Oh, fuck, it's _not_ one of those bits of pretentious portentous Deepak Chopra bullshit. It is not quantum mysticism. It is not persuading you that _eeeeverything_ is fine, so, please, please, _please_ , buy my books gorge yourself on my vacuous seminars.

It is something more elemental than this. It is to be. It is not your perfection; it is simply knowing the perfection in _being_. Apart from this; carve away the flesh from the ugly selfish self-indulgent act of consumption that is this culture's and every other's essence. It is not to slip away to some sainted primitivism.

It is to commune with the primeval. It is to know the amoeba. It is to savor some demented Disney delirium, lacing fingers with a diatom and dancing and swaying and writhing and it is toes curling now, because sweat sweat sweat so fucking _much_ of it's begun to coil around thighs quivering and sharply stitched with muscle because the belly trembles because there is hunger, and I am ravenous, and stroking my belly will not soothe this hunger.

So _this_ deed will not relieve my lust. My craving. Ah, ah, ah, but it is still there; it is still a palm clamped on a breast flaring up and it is to know yourself it is to taste your own flesh with an exuberance a _candor_ that is not the endlessly self-flagellating odium for the mirror's cold stare in its quicksilver elegances and...

Yes, I am a hypocrite.

It is to know that you are beneficiary of nature's simple whims. The legs and the arms and the tits and the ass and the hips and the waist and hair and face. Ah. Ah. What _arrogance_ to surrender to this point. But it is not with pride not with ostentation not with narcissism. It is the simple bliss the self-lust the self-love the self-adoration that is not apart from another's eyes and does not dwell in them, either.

I am here.

I am alone.

Spine arching; toes curling; a leg's graceful stretch and drawn up up up to know the flesh in its satiny sweat-lacquered delirium its oiled-silk elegances a fingertip _bruuuuushed_ with patient impatience down and up and down again stirring the seas Poseidon's rage churning those heavy smearing oceans that've gathered in your body's convolutions stagnant and steeping in the collarbone pools in the navel.

Twist; stroke; stripe.

A fingertip falls; lower, lower, lower. Eyes do not close, because there is no one for whom to entertain this pretension. It is not to banish the diversions, because there is no imagery. There is a ceiling; there are walls; there is a faintly musty stillness a cohesive unbroken mist in dust motes that capture the sun's heavy shafts with a twinkling grace.

It is to know a celestial harp capturing the universe in its ambit strummed with an angel's fingers as humongous and fucking balls-tripping in its psychedelic psychosis as the _authentic_ article, the Desert Father delirium in the great seraphim rearing up tens of thousands of millions of _trillions_ of cubits in their height, bestriding not only the world but All Creation.

A shiver.

Breath plumes from the breast; rears up deeper than even this. It is the gut; the idiot animal gut in its rudiments. There is no voice; not a whimper and mewl even a _whisper_.

Silence but for the fingers.

A dewy wet squelch the _instant_ a finger is brushed bifurcating in its lust between those lips. A gasp a shiver a simple _presence_ rearing up its great elephantine shoulders not masculine not a muscular divinity not a tangible being but a shapeless form, a figure wrought in animate shadow, coiling crawling scrawling its threads patient plodding plucking at every nerve teasing and tormenting.

Gasp from the lips.

There are no words. For whom are they spoken? It is not to deny the coos and quails and keens; this is something that is so deeply profoundly narcissistic that even the _body_ is renounced, is cast away in its apartness. The efficiency has become a place of ego death in your mad self-investment; it is even for the _me_ for the _I_ to vanish.

It cannot really even be _you_. Ah, ah, but language's sublime imperfections; its ragged demented imprecisions. You are language; the language is _you_ , also. Circular circuitous senseless _meaningless_ , but meaning is best tasted in meaninglessness, anyway, ain't it?

It is to know the body's twist and jerk and shiver. It is your head not thrown back but the eyes craning down down down beholding the flesh in its strange abstractions its sublimities in the dissociative. You are here; you are not at all. A duality without true dichotomy; it is to know both at once. Shudder shiver coo and it is not the mind meandering back with pornographic abstraction or even a zeal for those soft wet subjectivities in their immediate authenticity but only _nothing_.

I have sat and forgotten; it is all equally meaningless to me. Everything but the breasts in their lush heavy fall; the inkling of their faint splay and it is a palm's ambition its _struggle_ in fanned fingers to gather them again and it is to know no avail but every touch every stroke is novel and familiar at once. Imperturbable delirium in that waking juxtaposition; the nipples are Tesla madness, spattering heaving with electricity _hurled_ down every inch scrawling up through the flesh twisting tormenting and it is to pull to pluck to _strum_ silent thunder merciless murderous symphonics in the body.

Spine straining.

A gasp; a shiver; there is not even the will to silence but the conviction that sound is an aspersion against _this_. This quiet majesty; this divinity that now rears up rises higher higher higher an act of levitation the hair draping down across the leaden air bracing the flesh aloft like a gelatin mattress. Palm clasped _there_.

There there there.

To touch.

To blaspheme and profane without hypocrisy.

To touch. Finger, one, one, one, only _one_ finger, dainty and achingly modest patient swept up and down and up and down and it isn't to be transfixed with Little Red Riding Hood that is not so tiny not so little not so modest at all, no, no, no, oh, oh, no, no...

Tumbling through the forest; wheeling with insanity, eyes humongous and flaring scalding _hot_ through the darkness.

The Big Bad Wolf has long since tasted the lesson in meddling with Little Red Riding Hood. The ears are flattened and the tail is immaculately groomed and the eyes are glazed, that idiocy that stupid glinting conviviality named _domestication_. A collar has been slapped in iron around its throat; it chafes the flesh teases the fur and it is to know the _mandate_ in her voice.

Come.

Come here.

 _Mount_ me.

Come, come, come, now.

The long long legs curtained in their fabrics that roar innocence and whisper a deeper more candid song of nuance of gradation and finally, finally, the pitches invert themselves become the wolf tones because! Ah! Ah! Hark, it can be heard _now_.

Little Red Riding Hood was the _real_ wolf the entire time. What? You didn't notice at _all_? Grandma, you see, hers was a dalliance with _another_ wolf in another age. An esurient grappling tumble through the sticky damp earth redolent of death's purified essence, and it is thighs splayed it is a hunger heaving and shuddering twined around its flanks.

A command, urging, importuning.

 _Ah, ah, ah!_

You must.

You _will_.

Inside, inside.

There are confluences in skin and meat and bone and it is to know the delectation in blood with blood puddling pooling wrists and throat mauled and grandma has never _qqqqquuuiiiiiiiittttteee_ been as she once had. It is, as they say, never being the same.

She has not been the same.

She is perfected. And a finger now slips with a subdued wet _shiver_ between those lips and it is to stand at _true_ transgression's portal it is with fingers gathered into a fist rapping not at heaven's door, ah, ah, nothing so fucking _cliché_.

It is the goddess' own address.

It is a knock.

It is a hammer.

A pound.

A pummel.

Lemme. The. Fuck. _In_.

I have spoken your gospel.

I have preached your evangel.

Do you dare ward me away _now_?

A _scream_.

"W-aaaah! Wah! Wah!" Howling, wailing, because there is magic's essence. Because it is the finger becoming two and then three and now four, and it is a huge heaving spasmodic compulsion it is a convulsion vast tormented squeals and screeches dragged from the throat and I am a hypocrite I cannot will not be silent.

Not when the sensation peals up when there is thunder pummeling in the ears when there is the fundamental will to recede deeper and deeper and deeper into the flesh and into the bone to _implode_ into your own blood to taste your own organs while the fingers rip ever more exuberantly into the _nothing_ that explodes out that is not externalized because it was never only _internalized_ to start.

Ah, ah, _ah_.

Squalling.

There is...

There is an awareness of time and space distending. There is a kiss; levitating in this weightless place, this bodyless place, there are fingers outstretched. There is hair; black, heavy, thick and shimmering a lacquered obsidian grace a quality like a raven's feathers plucked and spun into silk and her lips _entice_.

Her eyes.

Her body. The long long long legs; the shapely elegances that _implore_ their slow sensual twist around the hips to coil with mine in unassailable symmetry. The heavy lavish tits; yes, yes, they are tits titties colossal fuckin' _humongous_ they are there to be adored to droop wilt over them.

But the lips, _this_ is what must be loved.

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Fall together and know the flesh and the bone. Because it is mine, of course, silly. It is my body; my body is her body.

 _Give it back._

 _Uh- **uh**. You, bitch._

 _Give my fucking body back._

 _Same to you. Give me **my** fuckin' body._

 _Well, there's only one way to decide it, right?_

This is my conception; this is my birth. Conjoined twins to _melt_ into one another. Harrowing extemporaneous biologic experimentation. The chromosomes. X and X or maybe X and X and Y or... Or what can it even matter?

Male or female? What's the destiny in _that_?

Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her kiss her kiss her kiss her die and kill and die and kill and _live_. Ultimately, ultimately, this is life's essence and fate's, also. To tumble together for fingers to be outstretched in your levitation to _hunger_ for her. For you. Her toes brushed against your belly a free-fall madness.

It is simply crumpling down onto the floor; it is to know the bodies intertwined. Her thighs _clamped_ against mine. The bodies inverted. There is awareness in this pantomime, in the kisses symmetrical, in a heel dragged up up up slithering along sweat-slick flesh those delicious humongous tits _yielding_ faltering under under toes pulled into her mouth.

And hers into mine. It is sticky, convulsive; it is kiss kiss kiss kiss _kiss_ ; it is madness and there is no unease in it. It is to permit the tongue to flit and flicker; to coil and twist serpentine along the fine sinuous geometries to know the nails the soft clean skin shimmering and faintly briny with sweat.

It is to drag your lips over the heels and it is more than anything just to _melt_ together. For your bodies to slip into promiscuous communion, legs dragged between breasts, up up up along the soft skin like the desert's pitiless trackless dunes, not the soft yellowed sand in the sentimental photography but the _reality_ the hard cruel horizons sun-battered into textureless colorless _nothing_.

Flushing, yes, along the cheeks; a heat that percolates out in great shafts down down down the chest through the arms strains the fingers twist the toes and it is her and it is _my_ body, also.

Her pussy's luscious lathering heat; it is legs draped over bodies lintels in confluence with posts endlessly mutable delusions of the absolute of crystallized reality faltering failing like stone splintered with heavy artillery. Her voice rears up; it is thunder in my ears.

Mine peals through hers. It is to know the bodies conjoined. We will pour together; these tributaries of great celestial rivers; these deltas sodden with supersaturated lusts with _passions_ that are not romance novel cliché and circumlocution the eyes averted from the reality but just the simple reality.

Nip and nibble at her toes know the girl's beauteous coos and quivers and giggles, also. Hair fanned around my shoulders and cheeks and hers, also, a foot dragged through their heavy cables and coils and we are steel, we are taut and twanging and twisted and braided together, _plaited_ into one another. Bliss coruscates and shivers up, up, up with every wet heavy _slap_ together.

There should be words; there are not. There really _can_ be none. Fingers now reach together and we are laced and entangled we are wired into one another it is living cybernetics, and it is its most fundamental truth.

Control; we are become one another; control pours from my body to hers her body to mine. Her eyes entrance and bewitch and mine, also. Black and black; white and white; alabaster and obsidian in their lovely stereo we will bleed together _pour_ into an interleaved universe where it is not body and body but _one_.

One great cohesion; not a homogeneity in sensation, either, but there is a perfect parallel. Pussy, pussy, a scalding wet delectation. Her lips and mine and it is to know their delirium pouring together _spilling_ into one another.

Drag her lips closer and closer and closer and it is something authentically acrobatic. A perfection in gymnastic grace; in legs twined around shoulders in pulling dragging twisting and it cannot only be our kiss now.

Because there is a need for more, more, more. To capture eyes even while they fall away; for her thighs to lace around my cheeks for her cheeks to become purchase for _my_ legs for there to be a tug a pull a violence a self-knowledge a self-love in this, in the absolutely exposed the wet shimmering pulchritude in skin and skin and skin.

In the darker lips and the sensual concentricities, implosive and soft and pink and pinker and deeper and now, now, a roseate universe a pussy-pink perfection a delectation. Peel her open; _pour_ into her. Know with biblical zeal the convolutions the ridges and planes the walls the boundaries without boundary the lips lurking _there_ and it is a clamoring to melt deeper still.

To consummate porno-perfect fantasies. To let the fingers meander tease and touch and stroke for the tongue to loll and roll out to flit and flicker and coil twist settle like nesting serpents around her clitoris to drag itself deeper into that hood and to slip out again. To nestle nuzzle to adore to inflame to coax deep dark heavy guttural nonsense from the mouth from the throat and for even this to die a sumptuously undignified death.

Fingers split her and I am split, also.

We are sintered together in this merciless airless swelter. It is to exist without existence. It is being without being; it is non-being with perfect presence with guise with shape and geometry.

There is nothing like shame here.

There can be no shame.

Not when there is the will to become one another; when you are her, and she is you, and you cannot quite be because there is still this achingly cruel quicksilver abyss between you. It is a void a partition a _barrier_ that cannot _quite_ be surmounted.

So so so so so _so_ fucking close.

But not. Nearness is the cruelest void.

A shudder in silent flushing frenzy; lips trembling wet with her rubbery mad stained with a delirium in her juices in their ambrosia their _ichor_ weeping out sticky and soft and mawkish on my tongue. Flitting daggering splitting her open.

Hungering.

Inhaling.

 _Eating_.

Eat eat eat.

A shiver and shudder.

A wish to scream.

Ah! Ah! Ah!

's so fucking fantastic.

It is...

It is...

But for whose ears really would those tributes be conceived? It is brick-grinding beat poetry without an audience; it is words written that no one will ever really hear at all, much less read. Ah, ah, but what does it matter?

Scream out into the abyss, and _your_ ears are still there.

So I will howl and heave and wail songs of self-love and self-abuse. I will know the curling toes the quivers the tremors I will know her hips _crushing_ down and then we are inverted, and it is mine. It is my spine to arch my ankles to be drawn taut with sinews captured in celestial fingers and _pulled tight_ and toes rake at her cheeks and it is to know softness a sumptuous bliss her tits against my belly mine against hers, flat and sleek and still oh so _lush_.

Luscious.

Fingers stir her, slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, quickening now with the neck twisting craning bending like a drinking bird once and again and again and again and it is nakedness skin bare in purity in Edenesque sublime but not _quite_.

Because it is not to be ignorant of your nakedness but to rejoice; there are no politic poises no hair draped over sinless nipples because, well, think of the children, y'know, daddy-o. The nipples are very much bare and drag themselves with coruscating sharp electricity over the sweat-smeared skin and it is to quake and shiver and _crush_ down upon her.

Her fingers wheel twist pivot grind; pads and fingertips stir and stroke and lavish that spongy soft skin with craving caresses.

Drag out huge spasmodic groans.

A deep desperate breathless _growl_.

And it is to be liberated; for her to be liberated.

Spraying spurting rearing up up up and it is nothing so rudimentary in its biologic bliss as just a bit of incontinence. It is _explosion_ ; it is ejaculation without masculine pantomime. Adorn yourself anoint yourself and there are others urged into being, the tens and hundreds and thousands in their multitudes because their eyes are there, and there are hands, also, and fingers, too, and it is to twist and wheel to be borne aloft to levitate to be skewered with the beauties in their hair's vicissitudes their bodies' vagaries and they are beautiful _more_ than beautiful they are pretty and they are succulent ad sumptuous and their legs are long and sleek and shapely and they will bristle with plastic perfections and there will even be Eri- _chenchei_ 's natural-unnatural lusts.

Fill us.

Pour into us while our wrists are clamped in clutching fingers; while we are pushed down, down, down, both of us at once and we will twist and brutalize one another; pull and tug at the hair know the huge coruscating electricity in the algolagnia in the surrender and the tyranny, also.

The flesh _ripped_ through you; pulled down down down deeper deeper it is to melt into a great pulsating corona it is to be devoured swallowed it is to exist without existence it is not to sit and forget not to lie and forget it is not Taoist it is not Shinto it is not Buddhist it is not Jewish not Christian not Muslim not fucking pagan or Satanist or _aaaaanything_ at all.

It is not three-by-three.

It is much much more than that. A woman's hips _crushed_ to a mouth hungering lavish; it is a silent illustration in groping commands in a passion that surpasses language, content to dwell in a place beyond that would never even _bother_ with it at all. So it is not; it is a poetry exacting in its perfection, denying form and guise and shape.

There is only hunger; there is the gratifying _nothing_ in being. In merely being.

A fanaticism for bare non-geometry.

For a convulsive crushing sexual psychosis; to implode into yourself to know the elemental sublimity in this. It is not hatred and not love; it is to be teased and torn and tormented and warped and finally, finally, broken on a celestial axis that is without absolutes.

It is to bow and whorl and wheel and shudder and it is here.

It is nowhere at all.

Fall back; be devoured.

They swarm.

Kiting and cavorting in their levitation; their eyes and their fingers and hands in their multitudes. They will pluck and tug and tear and rip and it is for your viscera to be bared for your body to be teased open to know their fingers lacing through the skin splitting open that flesh hungering eating more more more more more.

Carnal cannibalism.

Sexual insanity.

To be _inhaled_.

Dragged down; dragged deep.

Charybdis.

Scylla's delirium pelts and pummels 'til there's absolutely no sense even to hope to _beat_ out of your mind.

Falter.

Wilt.

 _Die_.

And rear up again in resurrection and fingers _peel_ my own body open. Know the ragged weeping wilting anguish in talons dragged along my belly my chest rear up and stand but not quite _stand_. It is an act of controlled levitation; it is a video game flair, a wire-trick whose twanging taut cables have been effaced.

On your heels and it is to admire yourself; a hand on a breast and another falling down down down tugging stroking impaling fall down upon yourself spear yourself on your own sword, ah, ah, _that_ is the fucking essence, isn't it?

It's to sip a psychedelic nonsense symphony.

It is a Zappa opera.

The grass' smoke coils heavy and treacly from the joint tucked between my lips.

Fall to your knees and pray.

Ah, ah, _ah_ , these are our tributes, our devotional prayers. I am inflamed I am _filled_ with Goddess- _chan_ 's spirit.

Ah.

"Hey, are you even _listening_ to me?"

Ah, I understand now.

Because it is to glimpse the figure cohering in the mirror, coalescing, a sublimity in sleek Yamato Nadeshiko elegance.

The shapely legs and the heavy breasts and the curvaceous perfection the elemental _majesty_ in anthracite hair unfurling around the slender shoulders. The porno-perfect hips the eyes sharp and vulpine and the voice, the voice, husky and dappling your ears with gelatin sexuality.

Ah, ah, _aaaah_.

I understand it now.

"Are you even listening to me? What's wrong with you?"

Yes.

There _is_ no Goddess- _chan_.

Her wisdom is mine.

Because, ah, ah, twist away the mirror, and she's gone.

Why, I was Goddess- _chan_ all along.

 _The End_.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, you loopy schoolgirl slut?" Wha?

Oh.

Right.

 _ **The End**_.

"Dammit, will you just _listen_ to me, for fucking once?" Guh?

 _ **THE END**_

"Ayumi, dammit!" Ah. I guess...

"So, ah, I wasn't really you all along?" Twist and crane and wheel and, ah, well, this is just _embarrassing_. 'cause, ah, she's...

She's totally seriously there, dude.

Eyes immense; greeting her in the oppressive leaden light the sunset that's begun to splash its languorous tawny passage across the floor. The collar eased open over the cleavage that could should probably be spoken of in the geologic.

Blink.

Long and slow and faintly reptilian.

A palm clasped on my brow; taste the sweat.

"Ah, you're... You're actually here? And, y'know, not some _amazing_ trip I had? We, ah, y'know... Dude, I sound like _such_ a stoner-"

"You _are_ such a humongous fucking stoner." It is not even judgment. It is matter-of-fact; it is to announce candidly and without equivocation that it _is_ actually your cock very legitimately swaying out of your trousers with the First Lady's eyes humongous and gawping and the president very transparently reflecting on whether it's _really_ worthwhile to persevere with the handshake.

"Sweet. So, y'know, all the stuff I was seeing, that wasn't a hallucination or anything?" With the lips quirking around my joint.

"Yes, it wasn't a hallucination or anything."

"So, uh, it was like any other week? But more magically infused?"

"More magically infused. _Suffused_ with my spirit."

"Goddess- _chan_ 's spirit-"

"I _do_ have a name, you know."

"Right. Right." Eyes narrowing.

Brows furrowing.

"Dammit, have you _forgotten_ my sainted name?" It's less opprobrium and more exasperation; not even with me. With herself.

The epiphany that you've been snarling snapping _bellowing_ with rage at the dog whose jaws are fastened around your keys because it hasn't volunteered to unlock the door.

Humanity isn't girded for the celestial.

It is something, well, visceral.

A native defect.

Or something.

"Shirobotan- _kami_ -"

"So you're _not_ as useless as my other prophets? Who would've imagined. Generations; millennia; longer than even that. And it's some demented stoner schoolgirl-"

"I am _not_ only a stoner schoolgirl."

"Near enough. A scholar, perhaps, and still, still, you could definitely be Cheech's understudy in the Takarazuka production of _Dave's not Here_."

"Chong-"

"That is a _Latina_ body." Well, _this_ is a biologic reality, ain't it?

And still, still, stamped with _Made in Japan_.

"Mmm. This is true, isn't it?" The smoke coils mawkish through the nostrils; the smile is serene.

It is a mendacious thing; it is the hammer orchid's enticement to the wasp.

There is a silence. It creeps slow and impatient; it is the essence of competitive syrup calligraphy in liquid nitrogen.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Closer, and closer, and closer. Levitation on long-stemmed elegance.

There is a kiss.

Creep and slip and slither nearer and nearer and the perfume is a sublimity; it is _eau d'Ayumi_ and nothing of this, also, _wreathed_ with her. With Goddess- _chan_ 's divinity.

"You know, I was _worried_ you'd be wasting my gospel-"

" _Never_ , Goddess- _tan_. Perish the thought-"

"Ah-ah- _ah_. This naughty girl." A fingertip outstretched; a sharp _swat_ at the nose's bridge like admonishing a petulant little puppy whose eyes huge and imploring and ingratiating are resolutely indifferent to the briny puddle creeping across the Persian rug that's been torn from the wall and flayed into grandiose shreds teased apart with a delicacy inverted from the artisan's exacting deliberate grace.

"Wan-"

"How _lovely_ you are. But here you are, in your moment of triumph, _wasting_ it all-"

"Uh- _uh_. Y'see, Goddess- _tan_ -"

"Please, don't provoke me, you loopy little beauty-"

"Fine, fine, _Shirobotan-kami_."

"Better."

"But I saw it. Y'know, I finally did. The dogma's good. It is. Not even a lil' catma in it-"

"Ugh."

"But 's all just so... So fuckin' absolute, y'dig? Everything's here to be profaned, right?"

"Mmm. I see. I see." A nod; slow slow languorous an achingly sublime _patience_ in the chin's glacial quirk up.

And down.

And up again.

A murmur; a textureless mealy whisper on the lips that is not conceived to be heard. It is birthed into this world cowled in its own sublime narcissistic quietude.

It is the eyes' embrace.

It is the vast plumy _infinitum_ that swallows, that drags you down down down down down and it is the essence of curling toes, of fingers outstretched, _raking_ at bedding blackening with sweat drooling dribbling _swarming_ in its pelting pummeling effusion from the flesh inflamed with her perfume.

With mine.

"You've been preaching my gospel. I can _taste_ it on you, _in_ you."

"'s it a revolution?" How can there not be questions? Ah, ah, in divinity's _presence_ , not knelt not genuflecting not prostrating and groveling and scraping, how can there _not_ be questions?

It's a point of plucking at the draperies, isn't it?

Mmm.

Why _this_ one, Goddess- _chan_?

There must be _some_ truth, right?

Some dogma?

 _Some_ perfect numinous evangel?

Ah, ah, what is the meaning?

Is there shape in the firmament, and form, and simple _being_?

Why are _you_ here?

Hey, who the hell's responsible for _you_ being here, anyway?

How's that make any sense?

And what's with all this cruelty shit? What's with man's inhumanity to man? What's with the rape and the massacre and the butchery and the continued existence of Yanni and Richard Clayderman and who's responsible for high-fructose _anything_ and shitty silicone implants and boring restaurants and books on tape and poverty and homelessness and politicians and Silicon Valley and the Central Valley and porno for boring stupid people and terrible fiction and terrible _non-_ fiction and the reality that just sort of slumps into that menial muddled chasm between them?

What's the deal with airline peanuts?

"Ah, _this_ is quite the word, isn't it, Ayumi- _kami_?" Revolution; revolution. It is still the only true word, ain't it?

" _Kami_?"

"Oh, yes. Don't you understand? This was... Ah, I don't really dare call it a _trial_. I am not shackled to those senseless absolutes; to virtue or virtuelessness. But I see it now." This is accentuated with a nod, slow and languorous, again, again. A supreme sage wisdom.

"I _do not_."

"Exactly." Ah. 'course.

"It, ah..."

"Don't you see?"

"I think I do. I explained it to you, right, Goddess- _chan_?"

"Ah-"

"Shirobotan- _kami_. _**Whatever**_. You see, it wasn't with despair that my hands wandered now. It was just- just appreciating the _perfection_ in my body. You can see it, right? The soul's numinous gem." And what metaphysical bliss it is.

I'm sure.

"I can taste it. Your wisdom. And mine. _Distilled_ in the soul; deeper than even that. Captured in the mirror. In the flesh. In the... Whatever. It's just so _exactingly_ meaningless. I finally finally fucking _get it_.

"And, uh, well, I can't claim _I knew it all the time_. Sorta the contrary. It's just... It's a metamorphosis." It's to know the husk finally sloughing away.

An act of rebirth.

"It's the _flesh_ ; it's the spirit _in_ the flesh. It's not the assiduously assembled nothings, all the fantastical figments. All the better-living-through-chemistry shit; all the televised virtues; all the ostentation.

"It's just about _this_." Open the door, and it is to know the elemental perfection coiling through the meat; taking root in the bone; spraying up through the hair's every achingly elegant flit and flicker captured in vacillating breezes that wash through the city's sun-bleached desolation.

The supreme senseless _busyness_ in deeds without destination; ostentation for another's eyes. It is for your own sight forever to be cast at the mirror, never savoring the immediacy in your own body. It is a waking living dissonance; it is a dissociation culture.

We will forever grovel before the ideal that is the face; it is not yours, and not another's. A morsel of artifice dwelling in both spirits and nowhere at once.

Ah.

It is all _bullshit_.

This is the simple truth, isn't it?

It's all _bullshit_.

"A-ah, Ayumi, g-g-good..."

The eyes are enormous.

Because she is beautiful; because this body and this face and this voice, also, very much are. Because she is lovely and sleek and a sensual sublime in willowy grace, in the lissome fingers in the shapely legs and it is not an assiduously sculpted manufactured _studied_ perfection.

There is an inkling of creases camouflaged in the makeup elegantly dusted on creamy cheeks; there are faint splinters unfurling from the huge enchanting eyes blacker than lacquered crude; there is a kiss of fat along reaches that perhaps the magazines would efface in thoughtless genuflection to a senseless ideal.

The hips are round and she is still long-stemmed and sumptuous and the dress in its well-cut indigo is not designer because this is an efficiency and the hair is very _very_ voluptuous spilling down her shoulders cradling the spine _clinging_ to her hips.

Fingers clutch at hers; taste the magenta lacquer adorning the nails.

"Ah-"

"Good evening, neighbor- _san_." It is to be awed with beauty; to be _dazzled_ with the figure that greets with tea's velvet steam pluming up from the brittle time-battered mugs the elusive little glances sidelong on your balconies little more than concrete lips so so _so_ near to being conjoined.

The voice's soft murmur.

The warmth in her cheeks.

It is nothing so _simple_ as flirtation.

It is the bath's scalding aura; it is her body clasped against yours and not in tyranny but only animated with the fragrance the _essence_ that is Goddess- _chan_ 's magic.

Flowering with her.

With me.

"A-ah, well... I- I didn't think you'd be meeting me at the door quite like _that_." Her eyes more than enormous; but it is not to _drag_ her into the apartment.

There is no force at all. Just a faint little stagger the clothing still very very youthful; her chest is _sumptuous_ , flowering up with a gelid little bounce.

"Ngn... I don't know. I was just getting ready for you." To admire the face's chiseled grace; the divorcée's tan still adorning her left hand. The sway in the hips the kitten-heeled sandals rapping at the modest little foyer.

"Ah, you're-"

"I'm wearing my sweat. It's what I thought I would." It is candor.

Ah.

That's the philosophy.

The gift.

Right?

A kiss. Long and lingering and slow and it is fingers slipped together, and it is ambiguity savored and it is unease heaved away in all of this.

I will say this.

I will steep us in the velvet junk that crams the nostrils and boils through the veins.

"Ah, ah, come with me, madame." While there is only the will to gorge yourself on breath; while gasoline's heady sharp inflammation burbles up through the gasps that pulsate between the lips, that are dragged down with a plea for more, more, more.

Settling on the sofa.

"Ah, it's so _warm_ in here, Ayumi- _chan_." With jovial zeal. "It feels like a sauna."

"It's just because _you're_ overdressed, you know." And so it is. With the door eased closed; with the universe a place wheeling with light, while the fixtures melt and puddle on the floor, while the walls become gelatin, while the windows implode upon themselves with a relentless crunching crack-crack-cracking fireworks cadence.

You will never again cower from Her Wisdom.

The kiss will always animate.

Her body when you are twisting and wheeling and rippling together.

Her knees taste like strawberry.


End file.
